The Zodiac Brave Story
by Simon Grey
Summary: The Kingdom of Ivalice reels from the 50 Years' War. King and commoner alike chafe at the injustices they've suffered, and dream of building a better Ivalice with their hands on the reins of power. As two great lords lead two great armies in a fight to claim the crown, the bastard son of the kingdom's greatest hero chases the monstrous truth that lies behind the war.
1. Prologue: A Search for Truth

**Prologue: A Search for Truth**

What is truth?

I have struggled with this question for as long as I can remember. We Durais have delved for so long in the murky shadows of history that the painstaking search for the nuggets of truth hidden in the mire of politics and power comes to us as instinct. We know better than to trust official stories and uplifting legends designed to keep men docile. We know better than to trust what all children know.

After all, all children of Ivalice know the story of Delita Heiral—the young commoner raised among Beoulves, who rescued Princess Ovelia from the clutches of Prince Larg. A talented warrior brought up by one of the realm's most noble families, until he turned against their wickedness and heresy to rise through the ranks of the Nanten. He won the respect of soldiers, knights, nobles and commoners alike and, in the end, won the heart of the Queen. So did King Delita the Virtuous lead Ivalice into its golden age. My ancestor, Olan Durai, stood at his side. Until Olan tried to tell the true story of his age, and was burned at the stake as a heretic.

Olan's story says much of Delita Heiral, true—though the portrait he wants is not always a flattering one. But his story has greater truths than that. It speaks of the Lions who almost laid Ivalice low to sate their ambitions. It tells of the shadows that unleashed such a tide of blood upon Ivalice for their own black purposes. And it tells of the men and women who took up the thankless task of stemming that tide.

One name stands out in this other story. A disgraced cadet who fled his noble family in shame. A mercenary who fought his way through Ivalice until his soul was so stained by heresy that none would absolve him. He was a bastard beloved by his father and made heir to their proud name as surely as siblings. By the time the war was over, he and his three siblings would be dead, reaping the grim fruit sown by the bastard Ramza's blasphemy.

This is the story the Glabados Church wishes you to know. This is the story they cling to, because the truth would reveal the blood and folly that stain their hands. This is the lie that must be exposed.

I search for truth because I must know my history. I search for truth because I am in need of ideals worth aspiring to. We all long for paragons who inspire us. We must dig through the mire if we are to find the nuggets worth polishing and treasuring.

So I ask you again; what is the truth?

What is the truth behind revolutionaries willing to sell their souls to see the world made as they'd once dreamed it?

What is the truth of earnest knights forced to abandon their dearest principles by the grinding necessities of reality?

What is the truth behind downtrodden prodigies who bend their intellects to the cause of equality?

What is the truth behind lovers of battle who see that love tainted by the depredations of those who command violence from a distance to sate their vile needs?

What is the truth behind noble men who see their fealty traded for power and their names cursed by betrayal?

What is the truth of children turned to murderers by malice and misshapen gratitude, searching for meaning among the dead?

What is the truth of desperate men giving anything to see order restored to a world gone mad?

What is the truth behind these Zodiac Braves?

There are many who do not want these questions answered. The powerful shadows shine lights on select moments of history so we will not think to look beyond them. When the finger points, who looks at the fingertip?

I have done my best to answer these heavy questions, but I can go no further all alone. Not without the aid of the brave and the bold and the true. Not without the help of those who can soldier on in the face of all the wretchedness this world and the men who live in it can heap upon us. If these Zodiac Braves can teach us anything, it is that things are never truly hopeless. So long as we remember that in our quest for truth, we are never alone.

So, please. Won't you join me on a search for the truth?

- _Alazlam Durai, scholar of Ivalician history_


	2. Chapter 1: The Death of Heroes

**Part One: The Rulers and the Ruled**

 **Chapter 1: The Death of Heroes**

 _The 50 Years' War devastated Ivalice and the surrounding nations. Constant warfare of this scale would have strained each country on its own, but a nation at war is not a nation in stasis. Every corner of Ivalice trembled from the effort, as barons and counts and dukes and kings were forced to make promises they could not keep in order to get troops and funds and supplies. Plague and disease killed commoners and kings alike. Ivalice should, by all rights, have lost this war. That fair peace terms were signed is often credited to the fearsome reputation of a single man: the Heavenly Knight, Balbanes Beoulve._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

Not so soon.

It couldn't happen so soon. It couldn't. The Choking Plague was deadly, but it was at the very least a known quantity. The healers knew how it progressed, they knew how to treat it, and the Beoulves could afford healers of royal caliber. So why, why, why...?

It couldn't happen to his father. It simply couldn't.

Ramza Beoulve rushed up the stairs, his blonde hair damp with sweat, his green eyes wide and frenzied, perfect mirror of his whirling thoughts. Delita was a step behind, taciturn as he had been since plague had taken his own parents. In spite of his silence, Ramza felt the faintest comfort from his presence. Delita would not offer him any words of support, but no one else could grasp how Ramza was feeling at this moment.

His feet made almost no noise upon the lush carpet, as he rushed past closed doors to his father's bedroom at the far wing of the manor. The door was open just a crack, and he could hear voices within.

"Father!" Ramza cried, shoving the door open.

His father was not alone. Dycedarg, Alma, and a Church Healer were with him. The Healer had a shepherd's crook out, pulsing with a faint light that crawled between subtle runes etched into the wood. His father, skin ashen with illness and silver hair limp with sweat, turned in his bed to face him. He started to smile, then trailed off in a fit of coughing.

"You forget yourself, Ramza!" barked Dycedarg, and Ramza fell back, his face flushing with shame. Dycedarg's dark eyes glared at Ramza out of the confines of his narrow face. His dark blonde hair, usually coiffed expertly, was rigid with grease. He placed a tin cup against Balbanes' lips. Balbanes sipped, then winced, trailing off into coughing once again. His father breathed in a rattling wheeze.

"Why isn't this working!" hissed Dycedarg, glaring at the Healer in his robes of red and white.

The Healer shook his head. "The Ydoran records tell us that the Coughing Plague was not easily healed even in their age," he said. "We have done all we can."

"That can't be true!" shouted Alma, huddled at the foot of the bed, clutching at her father's hand. Her hair, as bright gold as Ramza's, was as wild as her green eyes.

"It can," the Healer said. "It is."

"Then leave us," Dycedarg said.

The Healer inclined his head and left the room. Dycedarg turned his attention back to his father. "Can I get you something for the pain?" he asked.

"N..." started Balbanes, and trailed off in another fit of awful coughing.

"Alright," Dycedarg said. "Alright." He looked back towards Ramza and gestured for him to come closer. Ramza approached tentatively, feeling as clumsy and graceless as he always did besides Dycedarg's effortless ease and authority.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said, looking between Dycedarg and Balbanes.

"I know," Dycedarg said. "Me too."

Ramza reached out and took his father's hand. The three of them sat together, clutching at the father they loved, in a room silent save for the rattling breaths of his slow dying.

Ramza looked to the door, unsure what else to do, how else to act. Delita stood there, dark red hair straight and kept cut in a squire's bowl, his simple clothes still faintly dirty with cleaning grease. He did not look at anyone in the room. After a moment, Ramza saw Teta enter behind him, and put her hand on his shoulder. Her hair was the same dark red as her brother's, but where Delita's eyes were so dark as to be almost black hers were a most striking shade of blue. Delita reached up and rested his hand on hers.

Plague had taken so much from them: Delita's parents, Dycedarg and Zalbaag's mother, Ramza and Alma's. Now it would take Balbanes, too.

Thunderous steps sounded from the hallway. Delita and Teta turned and parted ways as Zalbaag swept into the room. In sharp contrast to everyone else, Zalbaag looked regal. His black armor gleamed in the lights from the walls, and his dark blonde hair and tight, jaw-hugging beard were trim. He flung off his blue cloak and it fluttered to the ground. There, the crest of House Beoulve: the White Lion, with the intercrossed swords before it.

"Move," Zalbaag shouted, shouldering Ramza aside and kneeling besides his father. Ramza stumbled, came to stop at his father's feet so the whole tableau was laid out before him.

"Wh..." Balbanes started, and trailed off in a rattling breath. He turned his head towards Zalbaag, and his eyes opened, and suddenly his father was not a weak dying man, suddenly he was Balbanes Beoulve, the Heavenly Knight. "What news," he said, in a whisper that carried sudden strength. "Of the war?"

"The Coprse Brigade arrived in time," Zalbaag said. "With their reinforcements, the Marquis punched a hole in the Ordallian lines. We have retaken Limberry."

"And Zeltennia?" whispered Balbanes.

"Cid led a joint force of Hokuten and Nanten," Zalbaag said. "The Ordallians could not break the walls."

"Ha!" gasped Balbanes. "They dreamed of beating the Thunder God!"

"We have just had word from Ambassador Lennario," Zalbaag continued. "The Ordallians have agreed to your terms."

A graceful smile lightened Balbanes' face. "Ah, thank you, God!" he breathed. "This war dies with m-" he broke off in a fit of terrible coughing, and suddenly the illusion of strength was gone, and he was just an old man dying in his room.

"Father," Zalbaag whispered, clinging to Balbanes' hand. Ramza had never seen that look of weakness in his brother's eyes.

Alma cried harder, and Balbanes gently tugged his hand out of her grip and cupped her chin. "No tears. Send me off...with a smile?"

Alma tried, her thin pale lips twitching, but it only seemed to make her cry harder.

"Ah, my dear Alma," Balbanes sighed "You are...the image...of your mother. You care...too much. The world...will not...be easy." He took a moment to catch his breath. "But you...are stronger even...than your brothers. You will-" He descended into a fit of rattling coughs, and he pulled his hand away from Alma to cover his mouth. Alma fell away, crying, and Ramza wrapped a protective arm around her, feeling the warmth of his sister, feeling his own weakness and insufficiency before her tears.

"T-time," Balbanes coughed. "T-time...at last." Balbanes gestured vaguely to the side of the bed. Puzzled, Zalbaag dropped down to the floor, and gasped. His trembling hands pulled out two sheathed swords: one a broad bastard sword, one a shorter one-handed blade. He looked between his siblings, his eyes wide. He placed the blades at his father's side.

Balbanes took a steadying breath and looked up at Dycedarg. "To you, my son," he said. "I give the sword Service. Remember that we Beoulves are born to serve the good of all Ivalice. To protect our King. To protect..." He stopped, drawing several rattling breaths. "To protect all the weak of Ivalice. To fight for their sake, never for our own."

"Yes, father," Dycedarg said. He reached down and took the smaller sword. He drew it from its sheathe, studied the shining silver blade, glowing faintly from the runes that ran across the pommel and all the way up to its sharp point.

"And to you, Zalbaag," Balbanes continued. "I give the sword Justice. Remember always that Justice cares naught for class, or birth, or power. The just must always hold the guilty accountable for their misdeeds, from the lowest commoner...to the highest..." He closed his eyes, his breath rasping on his throat and in his lips. Without justice...there can be...no Ivalice."

"Yes, father," Zalbaag said, taking the bastard sword from his side, his hands still trembling.

From the foot of the bed, Ramza watched his elder brothers carrying the legacy of their house, and felt a peculiar sense of relief. He envied them, yes—envied them as always, so proud, so confident, so comfortable with the mantle of their father's name. But now they bore an even heavier weight, and Ramza was glad he did not have to.

"Remember...also," Balbanes said, moving his hands so one rested atop Zalbaag's hand and the other took Dycedarg's wrist. "Remember that I l...love you both." He seemed to be choking on this last, but managed to force the words out. "But I love them, too." He turned his smiling face towards Ramza and Alma. "My blood...courses through...all of you. Love...each other. L...look out for..."

His eyes closed, and his breathing softened, though it still rattled faintly in his throat.

"Of course," Zalbaag said. He rose from his father's side, crossed towards Ramza and Alma, and embraced them both. "I am sorry," he whispered into Ramza's ear.

"Nothing to be sorry for," Ramza replied, wrapping his other arm around his brother.

"Where is...Delita?" Balbanes whispered.

"Here, my Lord," Delita said, stepping in from the hall. Teta hesitated behind him.

Balbanes chuckled, though it turned into a rasping struggle. His face reddened, his eyes hardened into a glare. "There!" he gasped. "Not...yet!"

"Father!" Dycedarg said, offering him the cup again, but Balbanes waved it away impatiently.

"Come!" Balbanes said, his voice ragged but firm. Delita hesitated, then approached with Teta tentative behind them.

"S-s-sergeant Roger," wheezed Balbanes. "You h-have been...training with him?"

Delita shook his head. "I just...I want to learn how to help you," he said, his voice shaky. He looked around the room. "To help the Beoulves."

"We would be...so lucky," Balbanes said, smiling. "He s-says you are...gifted."

Delita shook his head again. "I'm not," he said.

"I h-hope you are being m-modest," Balbanes replied. "I...have arranged..." He closed his eyes, struggled for breath. "You will join Ramza...in Gariland."

Ramza rose at once. Delita took a step back in surprise, and Dycedarg and Zalbaag gasped.

"You're serious?" Dycedarg said.

Balbanes managed to chuckle. "The headmaster...you should have seen his..." He struggled for breath, his eyes bulging slightly in his head. He grabbed for Delita's hand, and looked fiercely into his eyes. "You are...capable," he said. "Y-you can...s-serve Ivalice. You and T-teta both." He pried his hand from Delita and reached for Teta. "Y-you may j-j-j-" he broke off in another bleak fit of weak coughs. "Alma," he said. "If you w-will."

Teta managed a clumsy curtsy. "Of course, my lord."

"Good. Good."

Balbanes eyes closed again, Delita looked around the room, clearly lost. Dycedarg set his cup down and extended a hand to Delita. "I look forward to seeing what you can accomplish," Dycedarg said.

Delita looked at the hand and at once fell to one knee. "My lord-" he started.

"Oh, rise!" Dycedarg exclaimed, hauling Delita upright. "We may have to stand on ceremony out there, but not in here."

He offered his hand again. Delita took it gratefully.

Teta crossed over to them, hugging Zalbaag and then wrapping an arm around Alma.

"Ramza...?" Balbane's voice was a whisper.

"Father," Ramza said, rising from where his place with Alma and Zalbaag and moving to his father's side. Delita clasped his shoulder, and Ramza nodded at him. His head was still whirling and wild, barely able to make sense of all he was seeing. All his father's preparations to...

To die.

He took his father's hand, and stared into his face. Balbanes' eyes were still closed.

"I'm here, father," he said.

There was a long silence. Just rattling breaths. Dycedarg sighed, moved to the corner of the room, and refilled the cup from a glass bottle.

"Ramza...?" Balbanes said again, his eyes opening into slits.

Ramza tightened his grip on his father's hand.

"Our swords," Balbanes said. "Are Justice and Service. Ever have we seen...that Ivalice..." He trailed off, his eyes closing again. Ramza felt his jaw clench. How could his father be made to seem so weak? So frail?

"From the lowest beggar," whispered Balbanes. "To the highest king. We serve all. We serve the mercy. We serve...with honor. With...justice."

His grip tightened on Ramza's hand. "Your brothers...hold the swords. But remem...member. What they mean. You...show them. What it means...to be a Beoulve."

Ramza clutched his father's hand as tightly as he could. Slowly, the others returned. Dycedarg put the cup to his father's lips, and Balbanes drank of it gratefully. Alma strokes Balbanes' brow, and Zalbaag moved to the opposite side of the bed. They listened in silence to Balbanes' rattling breaths.

They listened in silence until Balbanes Beoulve, the finest knight beneath Heaven, breathed no more.


	3. Chapter 2: Gariland's Finest

**Chapter 2: Gariland's Finest**

 _Gariland has been a city of education since the days of the Ydoran Empire. When Ivalice was a rebellious frontier squirming beneath Ydoran boots, Gariland served as a frontier academy, a place where young men and women could get a proper Ydoran education even in the midst of barbarism. Even after the Fall, it retained many of the techniques and secrets of the Ydorans. Gariland has always been surrounded by powerful neighbor,s but rulers have all stripes know to value its neutrality. How else to guarantee the quality of its students? Whether they be healers, mages, scholars, or soldiers, a Gariland education is a mark of respect and talent throughout Ivalice. I see no reason this should ever cease to be the case._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Commencement Speech to the University of Gariland"_

Metal _clashed_ and _clanged._ Blunt iron blurred, parried, and slashed. A moment latter, a red-headed young man hit the dusty earth, his sword slipping from his numb fingers.

"And that is the fourth match to Cadet Heiral," said Master Instructor Bodan Daravon, glancing from the fallen cadet to Delita, standing stout and confident a few feet from his fallen opponent. Delita bowed with a little flourish from his training sword, spurring aggravated mumbling from the senior cadets scattered around the borders of the dusty rectangular training ground.

Delita stepped forward and extended one leather-armored arm, offering a helping hand to the fallen cadet. The cadet spat to one side and scrabbled to his feet, refusing to look at Delita.

"Cadet Madoc," Daravon said, calm and reasonable. "Conduct unbecoming a cadet is grounds for a demerit. Please treat your opponent with the dignity becoming your station.

Madoc stiffened, glared at Daravon, then turned around and grasped Delita's hand as though he trying to crush it. Delita smiled and tightened his hand in turn. Madoc flinched, jerked his hand away, and stomped into the crowd of cadets.

"And who," Daravon began. "Wants the honor of being Cadet Heiral's fifth opponent?"

Ugly murmurs from the crowd, but no one stepped forward to volunteer themselves. Daravon's thick eyebrows arched above his wild beard. "Shall I select someone for the honor?" he asked.

"No need," called a brash voice. A figure stepped out of the crowd. He was tall and gangly, his tan face pocked and pitted with acne. His light brown hair was a little greasy and wild, but he was grinning confidently beneath a prominent cliff of a nose. He carried a full-size training sword in each hand.

"Wulfie," Daravon said, with a slight smile.

"Dad!" Beowulf shouted, glaring at Daravon as snickers rippled through the senior cadets. "Don't call me that!"

"If I recall," Daravon continued, unperturbed. "You are supposed to be in Instructor Collins' seminar on supply line management."

Beowulf scowled. "You don't need supply lines on the _front_ lines."

"You do, actually," Daravon replied. "Which you would probably understand better if you had taken the course. Besides, even if I were inclined to overlook your truancy—for which, by the way, you will be assigned to latrine duty-"

"Dad!" Beowulf shouted, as chuckles sounded from all around.

"-you are not a member of the senior class, and cannot participate," Daravon finished. He looked around, then said, "But perhaps Cadet Beoulve can take your place."

Ramza sighed from his place near the rear of the group, near the chocobo stables. He pulled his hand from the neck of the bird he'd been petting, and stepped forwards. "Sir?" he said.

"Are you up to the task, Cadet?" asked Daravon.

"Doubtful, sir," Ramza said.

"A most appalling lack of confidence," Daravon grunted.

"But a most acute ability to recognize a pattern, sir."

Daravon's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Try your hand at breaking it, Cadet."

"Yes, sir," Ramza said, taking one of the sheathed training swords at Daravon's feet and drawing it.

"Good luck," muttered Beowulf.

"Thanks," Ramza said, facing Delita. His golden hair had grown out considerably in the two years since he'd joined the Academy, and he kept it tied back in a ponytail, an imitation of his father's. Where Delita was wearing leather armor wherever possible, Ramza wore a blue tunic with leather guards at his shins, forearms, and chest. He was rather proud of the greaves on his forearms: he had crafted them himself in their leatherworking course, and carefully concealed ridges of light metal. They were heavier than they looked, as many of his classmates had learned, both in trying them on and in fighting him.

"Begin," Daravon said, and Delita dashed towards Ramza.

Ramza was by no means a poor swordsman, but anyone watching could see that Delita was the better of the two. There was a spark and fluidity to his movements. In slashing, his sword was graceful, a dancer's sweeping hand, not the clumsy club some of their fellow cadets tried to make of it. In stabbing, the sword had the delicacy and precision of a needle threading through clothes. It was all Ramza could do to fend the blade off.

And when Ramza tried to disrupt Delita, and take the offensive, Delita seemed hardly to notice. He seemed to move with Ramza, not exactly anticipating his movements but responding with such ease that he never seemed off-guard. Ramza was driven across the dusty training ground, back towards the lines of their fellow cadets. Delita got faster and faster with every step, until the dull training blade was a grey blur and Ramza's parries had been reduced to so much desperate flailing.

A twisting slash, and Ramza's blade flew from his hand.

Delita smiled slightly, his guard lowered. Then his eyes flashed wide, because Ramza was lunging towards him, and he tried to twist his blade so strike Ramza and Ramza swung his greave in front of it, caught the blunt sword along the metallic edge of his leather gauntlet. The blade caught firm (though Ramza felt the impact echoing up to his shoulder, making his bone feel hollow), and Ramza grabbed Delita around the wrist, and twisted the blade from his grip.

With the sword, Delita was a terror: without it, he was almost clumsy, fumbling as he tried to keep Ramza's striking hands off of him. Ramza danced circles around him, slipped around him and grasped Delita beneath the shoulders and behind the head. He wrestled him to the ground, pinned him so he was gasping against the dust.

"Yield!" Delita grated. "Y-yield!"

Ramza rose, grinning and shaking out his numb arms. Delita laughed in turn, pushed himself up from the dust and hugged his friend. "Cheating bastard!" he shouted.

"True and true!" Ramza said.

"Hey!" shouted Cadet Madoc from the crowd, and Ramza and Delita turned to face him. "He _did_ cheat!"

"Did he?" Daravon inquired, turning slightly.

Madoc glared between them. "He was disarmed!" he growled "Ramza lost!"

"I see," Daravon said. "So all battles are lost the moment you lose a single weapon. Is this correct?"

Cadet Madoc flushed. "That's not-"

"Cadet Beoulve's maneuver would likely have been suicide against a proper blade, at least without Ydoran materials in his greaves," Daravon continued, turning a dismissive glance towards Ramza. Ramza's momentary triumphant warmth faded to dim embers. "But we were not fighting with proper blades. Ramza understood the rules of combat: you are not truly defeated until your enemy has broken your means to fight. And sword or no, Delita did not defeat Ramza."

"I wish!" Delita said, laughing.

"Well, perhaps next time," Daravon said. "Now, I am interested to see how long a streak our young Beoulve can manage. Particularly given his brother Zalbaag set the last record. So..."

He trailed off and looked over the students' heads, frowning slightly. A man had appeared at the far end of the training grounds: a man in a sky-blue cloak. With every chance flutter of the ambient wind, a vague white emblem showed on his back. The White Lion of the Hokuten.

"But we shall have to wait until next time," Daraon said. "For now, return to your rooms." His eyes flickered to Beowulf. "Or to class, as the case may be."

"Sure thing, Dad," Beowulf said. The cadets ringing Delita and Ramza began to scatter, and Daravon moved towards the knight. Ramza and Delita remained where they were standing.

"You think Zal sent him?" Delita asked.

"Who else?" Ramza said.

"Could be Dycedarg."

"He's not Knight-Commander anymore."

"Yeah, that'll slow him down," Delita said. "Dycedarg always worries about red tape."

"Can we leave?" Beowulf asked, eyes flickering between his friends and his father's back.

"You do eventually have to go to class, Beowulf," Ramza said.

"We'll see."

The three of them headed inside, winding their way through wooden hallways as they made for for Ramza and Delita's shared dorm room.

"Hokuten, though," Ramza said. "Strange, isn't it? All the Orders are supposed to keep out of Gariland, except for emergencies."

"Well," Delita said. "You could call the Death Corps an emergency."

Ramza glanced at his friend. Delita was not looking at anything in particular: his eyes had that far-off look they sometimes got when he was thinking intently about something. "You think it qualifies?"

"Don't you?" Delita asked. "How many soldiers have been discharged from the Hokuten ranks? How many remain to keep the peace? Never mind that any soldier who feels jilted by their discharge can now sign on with Wiegraf's rebels."

"He's right," Beowulf said. "Another convoy got hit last night on the way to Igros. No survivors."

"Interesting," Delita said. "How many is that now?"

"About one a week for the last three weeks," Beowulf said.

Delita said nothing for a little while. Ramza continued to study his friend, but said absently to Beowulf, "You worried about Reis?"

Beowulf chuckled. "Nah. She's tougher than I am."

"That's not exactly difficult," Delita said, still not looking at either of them. They reached their small dorm room, with cots against each small and a large desk they could share against a stately window. Delita took the chair: Ramza took a seat at the foot of his bed, while Beowulf flopped down on Delita's.

"Delita," Ramza said. "What are you thinking?"

"The Corps' attacks seem regular, don't they?" Delita asked. "Like they're looking for someone. Hitting convoys between here and Igros..."

"Yes?" Ramza prompted.

"Well, the Hokuten can't handle the Corps by themselves," Delita said. "That's obvious. And all the other kingdoms have their own problems to deal with. Unrest abounds. I doubt Barinten will send his Khamja, and Goltanna's not going to authorize the Nanten to aid Larg."

"Are things really that bad between them?" Ramza asked.

"You haven't heard?" Delita said, glancing at Ramza. "They had an argument at Orinus' birthday, after the King collapsed."

"Why?" Ramza asked.

"No one's sure. But it is interesting how everyone who stands before the Queen seems to take ill, isn't it?"

"They do?" Beowulf said.

"Do you pay any attention to politics, Wulfie?" Delita asked.

Beowulf flushed. "Don't have to be a prick about it, Del."

"Right after then-Prince Ondoria married then-Baroness Louveria, old King Denamda took strangely ill. It was right after he'd fought the Romandans, and their whole kingdom was riddled with plague, so no one thought anything of it. But there are rumors..."

"They're just that, Del," Ramza said. "Rumors."

Delita sighed. "You're always so trusting, Ramza."

Ramza shook his head and said, "Go on, Del."

"Well, there's one part of Ivalice that's doing alright," Delita continued. "And it's the last place the Corpse Bridge saw action, before they were so conveniently discharged without pay."

"That isn't right," Ramza said.

"No, it isn't," Delita agreed. "But we don't have enough gil for every problem, Ramza. Either the soldiers get paid, or the orphanages get cleared out, or we can't pay our share of the reparations and Ordallia could invade again. It's all bad choices."

Ramza sighed. "Yes. I know."

He did, though he loathed the notion of it. It made his skin itch. How could men fight for their country and find themselves treated so cruelly? Worse still: how could treating men so cruelly be the righteous choice? And when treated so cruelly, how could such men turn to such awfully savagery? Exactly how many convoys had been killed? How many men and women of every station? How did you resolve such a knotty problem?

He was glad such responsibilities were not his. Zalbaag and Dycedarg seemed far more able to solve such problems than Ramza.

"One place," Ramza said, to distract himself from his worried thoughts. "Wait. Limberry?"

Delita nodded. The pieces clicked together in Ramza's head. Limberry, yes. Low population, a pratical wasteland, abutting neatly against the deserts and mountains that protected Bethla Garrison, perpetual battleground for Ivalice and Ordallia. But every piece of arable land was fertile in the extreme, and it had a habit of producing powerful warriors. The invasion of Limberry was a relatively-recent event in the 50 Years' War, and the Marquis and the Corpse Brigade had driven back the Ordallian army on their own. Under Elmdor's leadership, their forces were strong yet.

"Yes," Ramza said. "Yes, I...that makes sense."

"But if we are to provide a compelling illusion of strength," Delita continued. "We'll need reinforcements, won't we?"

Ramza studied Delita. "What do you mean?"

Delita smiled slightly. There was a knock upon their door, and Ramza turned where he sat to find Daravon standing in the doorway, glaring at his son. Ramza and Delita rose to their feet at once: Beowulf did not rise from his sprawling languor on Delita's bed.

"Wulfie," Daravon said.

Beowulf cocked his head back on his neck. "Hey, Dad," he said.

"Two days of latrine duty," Daravon said.

"Whatever," Beowulf said.

"Instructor," Delita said, bowing slightly. "What can we do for you?"

A weak smile fuddled its way through Darvon's silver beard. "For me?" Daravon said. "Nothing. For Ivalice..."

"Yes sir?" Ramza prompted.

"There will be no exit exams for the Senior Cadets this year," Daravon said. "Per the request of Queen Louveria and with the full support of King Ondoria and Prince Larg, the Senior Cadets will execute their exit exams in the form of active duty in support of the Hokuten against the Death Corps."

Reinforcements? Ramza's head swiveled to stare at Delita.

"Is something the matter, Cadet Beoulve?" Daravon asked.

"Sir," Ramza said, flushing in embarrassment as he turned back to face his Instructor. "No, sir."

"Good," Daravon said. "Per the request of Knight-Commander Zalbaag, you and Cadet Heiral will be acting as guards at Igros, to free up some much-needed manpower for operations across Gallione. You will guarantee the safety of the townspeople and the Prince. Do you understand your mission?"

"Yes sir," Delita and Ramza said together.

"Good," Daravon said. "You leave tomorrow." He paused, then added, "You are two of the finest cadets to serve at this Academy in some time. I look forward to your matriculation, and to what you will accomplish in the future."

Ramza felt his cheeks aching up into a smile. A similar bewildered joy was on Delita's face. Daravon smiled in turn, and left the room.

"What about me!" Beowulf shouted at his father's departing back, but got no answer.

Ramza turned to face Delita. Their smiles slowly faded.

"Reinforcements," Ramza said.

"Right," Delita said. "Seems like the Marquis is coming to visit after all."


	4. Chapter 3: Death Upon the Plains

**Chapter 3: Death Upon the Plains**

 _The 50 Years' War was too expansive a conflict not to have far-reaching consequences. Ivalice saw three kings during its course, each worlds apart. Romanda and Ordallia, too, saw their leadership and armies broken, reshuffled, and reordered. These consequences stretched far beyond the war itself, but Ivalice in particular paid a high price. In order to retain its territory and stave of further war, Ivalice was required to pay reparations to Ordallia for violating the Zelmonian peace. Each province paid their share, however they had to. For this reason was the Corpse Brigade discharged, minus a full year's backpay delayed in good faith for the sake of Ivalice. For this reason did the nobility of Ivalice travel incognito, lacking the resources to move in force and keep the peace among a rebellious and resentful populace._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

The tentative golden light of a new dawn found Ramza and Delita in the stables on the training ground, checking their bags and examining their chocobos. The birds were stock beasts, well-trained but of poor breeding, and the stable staff of the academy were not particularly good. Still, they seemed friendly enough, nuzzling their orange beaks against Ramza's hand and preening a little as they cleaned their dirty brown feathers.

They both knew how to ride, both from their time on the Manor and in the Academy, but neither were especially good riders and anyways the birds were not really for them. The only reason they were even allowed to take them was to reinforce the riding garrison at Igros.

It was admittedly nice to have the option—otherwise they were looking at finding some convoy or caravan to get to Igros, or walking and turning a two-day ride into a week-long slog across the Mandalia Plains. A hard place at the best of times: monsters of all kind roamed its rolling hills, and now the Death Corps raided as it willed.

Well. If they ran into danger, they wouldn't be defenseless.

Ramza fingered the hilt of the sword on his waist, tracing the lion engraved just beneath the crossguard. Zalbaag had given it to him on the day he came to the Academy, and while Cadets were not allowed to use real swords without the permission of their Instructors, it had been a source of no small envy among their fellow cadets. The blade was not of the special Ydoran craft that made Justice and Service so formidable, but it was a good blade nevertheless, custom-ordered from an up-and-coming black smith at Igros. Its twin was on Delita's hip.

"How long's it been since we were home?" Delita asked.

"Since Ajora's Festival, I think," Ramza said.

"Back in Virgo?" Delita said. "Where does the time go?

Ramza shrugged, stroking his bird along its long neck. It cooed softly, nuzzling against him. There was a strange musty smell to the birds, like a forest after rainfall, rich and earthy. Not unpleasant, but hard to ignore.

"It'll be good to see Teta again," Delita said.

"How's Igros treating her?" Ramza asked.

"Well, I think," Delita said. "I get the sense her classmates are less bitchy than ours."

"That wouldn't be hard," Ramza said. He paused, then looked at Delita. "I'm sorry about Madoc."

Delita shrugged. "It's fine, Ramza."

It wasn't, though, was it? Ever since the other Cadets had figured out that Delita belonged to no noble family, they had been cruel. The fact that Delita excelled at his studies only seemed to provoke them further.

Well. Water under the bridge, right? They were all heading out now, on official duty. One step closer to knighthood. One step closer to...

To what? Ramza knew he would never surpass his brothers. How could he? Dycedarg was Larg's right hand, and Zalbaag had taken up their father's mantle as commander of the Hokuten. Before they had held these positions, they had already been impressive: they still told stories about Zalbaag at the Academy, and Dycedarg had been considered one of the foremost diplomatic minds in all Ivalice, brokering peace behind the scenes while Father and Zalbaag fought on the front lines. What did Ramza have to offer the Beoulve name, next to them?

He ran his hands along the coarse feathers of the chocobo again, then slipped his fingers through its reins and led it gently from its pen. Delita did the same, and the two men walked through the training ground, staring at the old wooden expanse of the Gariland Military Academy, two stories spreading through hallways and lecture halls.

"Well, look on the bright side," Ramza said. "We don't have any final exams."

Delita smiled. "No," he said. "Just the threat of death."

"A step up in the world," Ramza said.

As they left the stables, a third chocobo rose to meet them. Where theirs were stock beasts barely fit to ride, this was a sleek racing bird, with lilac feathers, a lithe body, and a falcon's curving beak. On its back, looking even more gangly and ungraceful by comparison to his mount, was Beowulf Daravon.

"Come to see us off?" Delita called.

"If you mean, 'to come with you,' then yes," Beowulf said. He had a sword sheathed on either hip, and a bag packed along the bird's side.

"What?" Ramza said, staring at the younger man. "Absolutely not."

"I wasn't asking your permission," Beowulf said.

"Beowulf, you're not a senior cadet."

"Oh, of course," Beowulf said, rolling his eyes. "Such a world of difference between 15 and 16."

"There's a world of difference between a cadet and a senior cadet," Ramza said.

"Look," Beowulf said. "I'm going to Igros. You can either take me with you, or get left in the dust when I single-handedly slay the Death Corps."

"And score with Reis?" Delita ventured.

" _That_ goes without saying."

"Beowulf-" Ramza started.

"Ramza," Delita said. "We can't catch him on that bird, so if we go report him to Daravon he goes to Igros by himself and gets gangmurderaped by everyone be. If we take him with us, we can at least make sure he doesn't die."

"I think you mean: I can make sure _you_ don't die," Beowulf said.

Ramza bit his lower lip. He couldn't let Beowulf ride out alone. And, if he was being completely honest, he didn't mind the idea of traveling with him. Beowulf was gregarious and his confidence was infectious.

Still. He didn't like the idea of angering the Instructor.

"Please tell me you at least left a note," Ramza said.

"Yeah, yeah," Beowulf said. "Let's get out of here."

He turned smartly on his chocobo and set it on a trot towards the west. Delita and Ramza shrugged, slid up onto their own birds, and followed.

Gariland was itself a thriving town, but the Academies tended to occupy its fringes—the Military Academy to the south, the Magic Academy to the east, the University to the north. It was a pain for anyone attempting major studies at multiple schools (Dycedarg had complained about this after one-too-many glasses of wine), but it also provided relative privacy to its students and teachers, while still giving them the opportunity to go into town. So the cadets' road did not take them into the town, though from their hilly path along its outskirts they could see its sprawling buildings of wood and brick.

They followed a precarious path over and between hills, winding its way slowly into the gentle rolling slopes of the Mandalia Plains. Soon Gariland and its academies were behind them, and they were following the broad Ydoran road that led between Igros and Gariland at an easy pace. Wind rustled through the tall grass on every side, bringing with it a rich green smell of earth and growing things.

"So guard duty?" Beowulf said.

"That's the assignment," Delita replied.

"Sounds boring."

"It's Igros, at least," Delita said.

Beowulf shook his head. "I'll have to find something better to do."

"You're not on assignment, Wulfie." Delita glanced at Ramza with a sly smile. "Actually, I think this technically counts as desertion. Right, Ramza?"

"Oh, it might," Ramza agreed. "I think we're looking at at least a month of latrine duty. Probably more."

Beowulf smiled in turn. "I get to see Reis." His face was annoyingly smug.

The day passed at a leisurely pace. They stopped only for their own private latrines, eating dried fruit and meat straight from their bags without dismounting their birds. They passed commoners walking the roads on foot, and merchant caravans traveling to and from Igros and Gariland, usually driving their carts pulled by two birds. Once, towards afternoon, they had to pull to the side of the road as a small squad of Hokuten rode north and west, azure cloaks flaring back behind them to display Larg's white lion.

"Wonder where they're headed," Ramza said.

"We're supposed to reinforce Igros," Delita said. "I imagine those are some of the men we'll be relieving, so they can hunt the Corps."

A rather handsome man with rugged features and well-kempt dark hair glared at them imperiously from atop his mount. "Stand aside!" he shouted.

"Yes, sir," Ramza said, guiding his bird back.

"Not like we were already off the road," Delita muttered.

They waited until the Hokuten were well out of sight, then followed along.

As dusk painted the plains orange, the cadets left the smooth Ydoran road and walked their birds through the grass, heading to a low hilltop.

"You're setting up the tents!" Ramza shouted towards Beowulf

"Yeah, yeah..."

As Beowulf dug through their bags, Razma pulled a post with a hole in one end from his bag, and sank it into the ground. After wiggling it to make sure it was secure, he led each bird back to it, and tied them to the post. Truth be told it wouldn't actually _stop_ a chocobo from bolting, but it might slow them down enough for whoever was on watch to catch them.

A low, reedy sound rose up from behind him, not unlike a duck's call. Ramza glanced over his shoulder, smiling slightly: Delita had a blade of grass pressed against his mouth.

"I knew you couldn't resist," Ramza said, finishing his knot and striding to Delita's side.

"Have you forgotten how?" Delita asked, offering Ramza another blade of grass. Ramza plucked it from his fingers, pressed it against his mouth, and listened to the high chirping sound it made as it vibrated against his lips. He breathed deep of the rich green scent, fresh and alive.

It brought to mind memories of a better time. Of Balbanes, leading them off the Beoulve estate to the Plains, teaching Ramza, Delita, Alma, and Teta how to play their grass flutes, while Zalbaag and Dycedarg laughed and drank.

"I still sound like a songbird," Ramza said.

"Or a bird of prey."

Ramza snorted. "As if."

Delita shook his head. "Some Beoulve you are," he said.

Ramza felt his heart twist in his chest. "I know," he said.

Delita sighed and grabbed Ramza's shoulder. "We're on the road to Igros," he said. "We're heading for active duty. Even your brothers didn't start so early."

Ramza shrugged. Delita could say what he wanted: Ramza knew that guard duty was not the same thing as the mighty achievements of Dycedarg and Zalbaag.

"Well, if you're gonna be like that," grunted Delita. "You can take first watch."

"My pleasure," Ramza said.

The night passed by easily enough: the cadets ate from their stores and huddled up without stoking a fire. If the Corps was raiding the roads, they didn't want to draw any attention to themselves. Ramza woke Beowulf at moonrise and settled upon his roll. He was saddlesore, his thighs aching and chafed, his mind still strange, even to him.

He did not know when, exactly, he fell asleep. But he must have, or else the mighty _crash_ would not have woken him.

He jerked upright, blinking blearily in every direction, picking out shadows in the pre-dawn twilight. Beowulf was already rising from the ground, throwing his swordbelt around his waist.

"Delita!" Beowulf shouted.

"Quiet!" hissed Delita, on his belly at the edge of the heel, eyes to the north.

Beowulf crouched down beside him. Ramza grabbed his sword and crawled to join them.

"What is it?" Ramza said.

"Don't know," Delita said. "I thought I saw a caravan, but then..."

He was silent, and they heard the sounds together. Screams and shouts made thin and reedy by distance.

They moved without thinking, untying their birds and hurtling down the hill, leaving their bags and bedrolls behind them. As dawn gradually lightened the sky in every direction, they saw the first body, dressed in ragged leathers and metal. On his shoulder was painted a crude skull with a cracked crown atop its head.

"The Corps," whispered Ramza.

Another shout from up ahead.

"Hurry!" Delita said, cracking his reins so his chocobo picked up the pace.

They crested a low rise and found a bloody scene painted in front of them. A blood-smeared caravan lay on its side, one of its chocobos dead, the other still whimpering faintly with its left leg twisted into splinters of bone beneath it. Dead men ringed the caravan, some in coloroful clothes, some in armor, some in the ragged garb of the Corps.

And beyond them, a small cordon of men in ragged gear surrounded a rocky outcropping, atop which Ramza could just make out a bloody human figure.

"The Marquis?" Ramza whispered.

"Maybe," Delita said. "Maybe not. But whoever he is, we've got to rescue him."

Ramza counted the men below. "There are ten of them, Delita," he whispered.

"Three apiece," Beowulf said. He stroked his bird's neck. "Violet here could probably handle the spare." The bird gave a low chirp, as though agreeing with him.

"These are soldiers," Ramza said, shaking his head. "We should...find someone. The Hokuten, or-"

"There's no one but us," Delita said.

Right. No one but Ramza, and ten men against three was not the kind of work a cadet did. That was a work for heroes and knights, for Beoulves who had earned the name.

He closed his eyes, as bile crawled up his throat and the blood in his veins itched and birds of dread fluttered in his stomach.

He remembered his father's hand on his. He remembered his father's words in his ears. Justice and Service.

He shook his bird's reins, and rode forwards.

"Ramza?" Delita started.

"MEN AND WOMEN OF THE DEATH CORPS!" Ramza cried, and his voice sounded so dreadfully high and young in his hears, but he rode on at a stately pace, as though unafraid. The small cordon of soldiers turned as one to face him, drawing blades and knocking arrows.

Oh. Ramza hadn't seen the bows.

He continued his slow advance. He heard the tread of taloned feet upon the grass, and did not need to look to know Delita and Beowulf were following his lead. How ghastly, that: to think he was leading his confident friends. He felt a strange surge of gratitude that they should follow him when he was so afraid.

"I am Ramza Beoulve, son of Balbanes!" he shouted, guilt cracking at his ribs as he hid behind his father's name, but a ripple of trepidation spread visibly through the soldiers in front of him. Weapons lowered a fraction of an inch.

"Lay down your weapons," Ramza said. "And surrender to our care. I give you my word as a Beoulve: no man who lays down his arms will be harmed."

He came to a stop some ten feet from the soldiers. His eyes flicked past them to the bloody figure on the rocky outcropping—a young man, blonde hair caked with blood, wearing heavy clothes of blue with armored plates of polished orange metal, one arrow sticking from his thigh and another from his shoulder. He had a quiver near his feet and a bow in his hand: Ramza noted that at the base of the outcropping was a bandit with an arrow in his throat.

"I never heard of no Ramza Beoulve," sneered a man holding a bow near the front of the group.

"But you have heard of Balbanes," Delita said, sidling his chocobo forwards. "You've heard of Dycedarg, and Zalbaag. If he's half the man they are, do any of you think you can take him?"

Silence, tense and taut as their bowstrings. The bloody young man on his stone outcropping watched Ramza through eyes slitted with puffy bruises.

"Beoulve!" growled the man at the front. He shifted—to raise his bow, or lower it, Ramza was never sure. The man on the rock drew, faster than Ramza would have believed possible. An arrow flew, and buried itself in the man's neck.

The man screamed, and fired his own arrow. It flew, swift and true, into Ramza's chocobo. The bird collapsed with a desperate squawk, spilling Ramza out into the dust.

Shouts rose up from every man and woman. Ramza struggled to pull his legs out from the great weight of his bird, found strong hands hauling him upright by his shoulders. The clang of real metal—of lethal blades that could cut you open and leave you bleeding and dying—echoed through the pink dawn of the Plains.

"Are you alright!" Delita roared.

"Fine!" Ramza shouted. He drew his sword, and Delita did the same. They turned to face the Corps. Beowulf was already past them, both swords drawn, both swords bloody, Violet unharmed even after tearing a hole straight through their ranks. Another archer—a statuesque woman near the rear of the group, closest to Beowulf—took aim. The young man atop the rock fired again, and his arrow buried itself into her left breast. She screamed and sank to the ground, clutching at the wound.

Ramza had no time left for thoughts or doubts. He charged, with Delita at his side. On the opposite side of the crowd, Beowulf wheeled back around.

Ramza and Delita swung, and found blades raised against them. The man in front of Ramza slashed with frenzy. For a moment, icy terror filled every inch of Ramza, as he imagined what that sword might do to him, imagined his guts spilling out onto the Plains as he died an ignoble-

But then his fear faded, because for all his fury his opponent was so dreadfully slow. It seemed as though Ramza could see every swing of the blade before it had happened. He was so clumsy, his movements so telegraphed, that Ramza barely needed to parry. Instead he ducked, dodged, wove from side to side, letting the man exhaust himself, swinging slower and slower with every passing moment.

At last, Ramza lifted his sword, caught the impact of his enemy's blade with a rattling _clang_ he could feel all the way up his arm, reverberating down from elbow to fingertips. Ramza kept his blade between them, swung beneath the man's guard and struck his pommel against the man's wrist, dropping the sword from his numb fingers. The man raised wild eyes to Ramza's face.

A slick sound, like leather being cut. A strange, salty smell, as something flecked against Ramza's face. Ramza stared at the arrowhead protruding from the man's cheekbone, reached up to feel the man's blood against his face.

The man collapsed into the grass. Ramza stared down at him, unaware of anything besides the dead man for several long seconds.

He looked up, feeling hollow as wet blood slid down his face. He looked up to the young man on the rocky outcropping, his quiver empty now, his bow still clutched between white-knuckled fingers. Ramza turned his head from side to side without noticing it, saw Delita standing over another man with a steady red drip on the edge of his blade as he stared down at the fallen figure. Ramza saw Violet's bulk above him, and Beowulf upon the bird's back. The dead littered the grass.

What remained of the Corps—just five of them, two supporting the woman who had taken an arrow to the chest—were stumbling up into the slopes.

"Do we pursue?" Beowulf asked. His voice seemed terribly far away.

Delita looked up from the man dead at his feet. His face was white, his lips slightly open.

Ramza swallowed, tried to find words, failed.

"No," Delita croaked.

Ramza shook his head. "No," he agreed.

Beowulf nodded. "Alright," he said.

Ramza moved past them, clambered up the outcropping, dropped his sword into the grass and ran a soothing hand across the young man's head. "Any other wounds?" he asked.

The man's slitted eyes opened, glinting with tears. "Please..." he whispered. He had a deep, rasping voice, and his words were colored by a gentle Limberry brogue

"I am," Ramza said. "Where does it hurt?"

"N...not m-me," the young man said. "T-the...the Marquis..."

Vague memories of Delita's words yesterday (a lifetime ago) passed through Ramza's mind. Vague memories of why the Corps was out in force, and why they had been on the road to Igros, before...

Ramza touched the dead man's blood on his face with his fingertips.

"The Marquis," Ramza whispered.

"They...took..." the young man groaned and his eyes fluttered closed.

They took him? What exactly had Ramza stumbled into?

Time for that later. This man was hurt. He might well die, and he might well have saved Ramza's life by his killing.

"Delita!" Ramza shouted. "Beowulf!"

He waved them over, looked for the best way to help the young man down. To save a life, in this place where so many had lost theirs.


	5. Chapter 4: Kill or Be Killed

**Chapter 4: Kill or Be Killed**

 _Men and women often have trouble reconciling the ramshackle Hokuten who barely bested the Death Corps with the efficient war machine that fought the Nanten to a stalemate during the War of the Lions. What these men and women lack is a personal perspective towards history. Imagine yourself two years ago. Imagine yourself two years before that. See the marked differences that develop: in lifestyle, friendships, personality, romance, discipline. Multiply that difference by a hundred thousand. All history is personal: all that changes is the weight of all those interactions. The complex web of need, indifference, desperation, and ambition that underlies all of history is the life story of a countless multitude writ large._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The Hokuten: From Ydoran Militia to Illustrious Army"_

"I don't want to leave you," Beowulf said, from atop Violet's back.

"I don't want to get left," Ramza said. "But you're the best rider, and Violet trusts you. The sooner the Hokuten know of this, the sooner you get us help, and the sooner we can find the Marquis."

"Get us help," Delita added, as he finished securing the young Limberrian they'd rescued to the back of his bird. "Fast."

Beowulf nodded, then rattled Violet's reins and plunged off, foregoing the path entirely and heading due northeast, through rocky outcroppings and over rolling hills as he sprinted for Igros.

"Should we follow him?" Ramza said. "Or take the road?"

Delita shrugged, finishing a knot and standing away from the bird. "This was a big raid," Delita said. "I doubt we'll get hit by bandits again. Still, it's a risk."

"But we won't get to Igros fast enough on foot," Ramza said.

"We won't get there fast enough at all if Beowulf doesn't get help," Delita said.

Ramza hesitated, then grabbed one of the saddlebags and slung it across his shoulders. Opposite him, Delita did the same. They left two other bags on the hill: they were slow enough already. Adding more weight would reduce them to an intolerable crawl.

Ramza headed down to the road. Delita followed, leading his chocobo.

For a little while, they were silent. The Plains were sunny and gorgeous, the rich scent of grass and the dusty musk of animals on the wind. They felt alive, and lovelier than Ramza had ever seen them.

How could so many have died, on a day like this? How could his face still be sticky with a dead man's blood?

The fingers of his right hand, still tingling from the fierce flow of the dead rebel, touched the pommel of his blade. He looked at its twin on Delita's hip, and remembered how his friend had looked, standing over the man he'd killed with the dead man's blood upon his blade.

"His wounds look good," Delita said, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah?" Ramza said. "I had to use most of our salve."

"Well, he's the only survivor," Delita said. "We need him alive."

Right. Alive.

"Delita," Ramza said.

Delita glanced at him. Ramza swallowed against the dryness of his throat, and said, "Are you...are you alright?"

Delita shrugged. "No wounds," Delita said. "That's a miracle unto itself, eh?"

"That's not what I meant," Ramza said.

Delita seemed to stumble. "I know," he said.

Silence again. The two of them walked on, but Ramza couldn't tear his eyes away from Delita.

"It was us or them, Ramza," Delita said. "That's...this is what we trained for."

Trained for. Right. Honed their skills at the Gariland military academy, learned the art and craft of war, learned to fight, to manage, to command and to serve. He had gained all the tools he might ever need for justice and service, and what did he do with them? Kill men and women whose only crime was rebelling against a broken oath?

Men and women who had slaughtered the Marquis' guard, and taken the man himself. Delita was right, wasn't he? Whatever the Corps' grievances, it did not justify their evil. And what was a Beoulve, if not a man who delivered justice to the guilty?

"Of course," Ramza said. "But are _you_ alright?"

Delita shook his head. "No," he said.

Ramza crossed to his friend and put a hand on his shoulder. "There wasn't another way," Ramza said. There wasn't, was there? The fight had started, blades had slashed and arrows had flown. It was us or them, kill or be killed. And if Ramza's hands were clean, it was only because he had been spared that burden.

He looked up at the young man on Delita's bird, thought grimly of the kind and stalwart chocobo he'd left dead on the Plains. They had fished the arrows from the squire's thigh and arm and bandaged them tightly, using most of their healing salve to treat his wounds. Delita had the cadet's bow slung over his shoulder.

"You did what you had to," Ramza said.

"I know," Delita said. "Doesn't make it easier."

The man atop the chocobo groaned, eyes fluttering. He shuddered against his bindings, and Ramza and Delita stopped the bird and placed a hand on the man's shoulders.

"Easy," Ramza said. "Easy. We've bound you so you're stable, alright?"

The man growled, struggling so the bird stumbled beneath him. "You common whoresons!" he swore, with a surprisingly deep voice. The loudness of his voice reduced his Limberry brogue to a dim whisper. "You miserable bastards, I'll-" His eyes scrunched closed, as though fighting a migraine. "Wait. You-"

He opened his eyes again, a disjointed look of embarrassment flitting across his battered face. "I-sorry," he said. "I thought...I forgot-"

"You're fine," Delita said. "You took quite a beating."

"I...yeah," the man said.

Ramza and Delita exchanged glances. Delita jerked his head back down the road towards Igros, and Ramza nodded. "We have to keep moving," Ramza said. "Can you handle that?"

"Yes," the young man said. Delita pulled at the reins, and they set off again. Ramza stayed by the man's side.

"You..." The man's words were a little slurred with confusion, his eyes searching Ramza's face. "Did you...you told those fuckers you were a Beoulve?"

Ramza nodded. "I am," he said. "Ramza Beoulve."

"Ah, thank God!" moaned the man. "A little blessing in all this madness. You can save the Marquis."

Ramza shook his head. "I doubt it," Ramza said. "I'm just a cadet."

"A cadet?" the man said.

"Not even graduated," Ramza said. "They had us coming to reinforce the Igros garrison."

"Igros..." The man chuckled, and it sounded almost like a sob. "Still going to Igros."

Ramza did not like that look of misery and pain on the man's face. "Your name?" he asked, trying to lead the other man away from his black thoughts.

"Argus," the young man said absently. "Argus Thadolfas."

Delita's head craned slightly. "Thadolfas?" Delita repeated.

A strange look crossed Argus' face, terror and shame trying to bug out through his bruise-slitted eyes. "I..." he started. "Yes."

"Is something wrong?" Ramza said, eyes flickering between them.

"Nothing," Delita said. "It's nice to meet you, Argus. I'm Delita."

Argus said nothing. His face relaxed ever so slightly. "Delita," he whispered. "Thank you." Ramza thought he could hear tears in Argus' voice.

Ramza could sense larger things moving somewhere he couldn't see, but chose to stay silent. Argus and Delita had been through enough today.

"Can we trust the Hokuten?" whispered Argus, after several minutes had passed.

"Absolutely," Ramza said at once. How could there be any doubt in the knightly order his father had led, that his brothers still led?

"The men who took the Marquis," Argus said. "They wore Hokuten cloaks."

Ramza and Delita stopped again, staring at the man. Ramza wondered if his head injuries were making him delusional.

"That's how they took us by surprise," Argus said. "Whole troop of them on chocobos, riding up saying they had an urgent message for the Marquis. Then they-" he broke off, his voice thick. "Trampled me while I was trying to get close. Killed everyone but the Marquis."

"The men we fought weren't wearing Hokuten crests," Delita said.

"They came after," Argus said. "The ones in cloaks, they...they dragged the Marquis from the carriage."

"He was alive?" Ramza said.

Argus nodded vigorously, then groaned in pain. "Yes," he grunted. "He was. I saw him moving."

"And the men we fought?" Delita prompted.

"Came from the hills. Spoke with the Hokuten. Started killing the survivors. The men with the birds, they...took the Marquis back east, the way we'd come. I managed to...to get where you found me, before they realized I wasn't dead. They were...they were trying to..."

"I know," Ramza said, patting the man's forehead soothingly. "I know."

They resumed their march, but they were much slower now. Argus had lapsed into a dazed silence, and Ramza and Delita led the chocobo and spoke in hushed voices.

"It has to be that Hokuten unit we saw yesterday," Ramza said.

"Agreed," Delita said. "But how?"

"Surely someone could craft fake cloaks," Ramza said.

Delita shook his head. "Thirty authentic cloaks on such short notice?" he asked. "I doubt it. And we'd have seen more wear and tear if they'd been taken from corpses." He was silent for a time, then added, "It could be worse than that."

"How?" Ramza asked.

"They could actually be Hokuten."

Ramza stopped walking and stared at Delita aghast. "Impossible."

"Is it?" Delita asked. "The Hokuten aren't perfect, Ramza. Thirty men from a common background who fought beside the Brigade might be convinced-"

"My brothers wouldn't allow it," Ramza insisted.

"In spite of what you think, Ramza," Delita replied. "Your brothers aren't perfect."

Impossible, wasn't it? As sympathetic as Ramza might have found the Brigade's grievances, that was no excuse for the rank banditry and savagery they clearly used to accomplish their aims. To think that other men of the Hokuten might feel differently was inconceivable. Wasn't it?

"Regardless," Delita said. "In order to know where the Marquis was, someone has to have been feeding them information. It's either Limberry or Gallione, and the Corps doesn't operate in Limberry."

Ramza was silent, mulling over that information. It seemed unthinkable. This was the knightly order his father had commanded. Surely they had not been corrupted. Surely they stayed true. Surely...

But he couldn't be sure, could he? Not with another man's blood upon his face.

Again, that flash of terrible memory. Even though he'd cleaned himself, he imagined his face was still faintly sticky with it. And another, more terrible thought: if Argus hadn't done it, would Razma?

Delita had. Beowulf had. Ramza? Ramza's hands were clean, and that brought its own strange guilt. Would they have stayed clean? Was it only accident? Shouldn't he want to kill such men, who slaughtered and hurt so many?

Traitors in the Hokuten. Traitors who might be sympathetic to a sympathetic cause.

They walked in silence. What else was there to say?

As the sun baked down on them with afternoon heat, they crested a hill and found a small squad of Hokuten charging towards them on birdback. Ramza and Delita tensed, their thoughts filled with Argus' words and the doubts that came with them, but then relaxed when they spied the purple bird in their midst. They waved, and the soldiers adjusted their course. Some five men with seven birds.

"That was quick!" Delita called, as Beowulf drew closer.

"They were already out looking for the Corps!" Beowulf shouted. They came to a halt, and one of the men hopped off his bird and approached Argus, palms out. He wore a band of red and white around his left arm, and he raised his hands to Argus. Runes glowed upon his gloves, and faint light shimmered out from his hands, surrounding the injured squire.

"Already sent a message back to Igros," said a long-haired man who looked hardly older than they were.

"You're in charge?" Delita said.

The man shrugged. "For the moment. Acting Corporal Lambert, at your service."

"Acting Corporal?" Ramza repeated.

"We're short-handed these days," Lambert said.

"You're aware of the situation?" Delita said

"We are now," Lambert replied. "Command had us on high alert. Told us to watch for Corps activity. Didn't know about the Marquis." He grimaced. "This is a real shitshow." He gestured to the two spare birds. "We were fortunate enough to have relief mounts.

Ramza felt a brief pang as he remembered his own bird, down dead upon the plains along with so many men and women, from the Corps and from Limberry. He mumbled his thanks and mounted the bird.

"Who treated his wounds?" asked the healer.

Delita gestured towards Ramza. The man moved to his side and said, "Cadet. Those are some of the finest field dressings I've seen made by any soldier. You've got a knack for it."

Ramza nodded. He should have felt grateful or proud, he supposed. All he felt was empty.

"With your instincts," the man continued. "You might think about training as a Healer."

A Healer? A Healer like the man in robes of red and white, powerless to save his father? So used to seeing men die of plague that he maintained a hardened note of practicality even in the face of all their grief?

And what was better? To be a man who couldn't even kill your enemies? A man who sat and sweated with guilt for being alive when another man had tried to kill him?

"Thank you," Ramza said.

They headed west at a brisk trot, but they had lost too much time in the morning's battle and in their slow march west through most of the day. On birdback it was an easy two-day ride to Igros, but they'd been delayed by half a day, if not more. They were forced to camp for the night, using what gear they hadn't abandoned. And all through the night was the weary sense of danger. After all, thirty men had taken the Marquis. They could come again, and take all eight of them at once.

So even though it was not his watch, Ramza was awake when Argus slipped out of his tent and sat in an uneven slouch in front of him.

"You should be asleep," Ramza said.

"So should you," Argus said.

Silence then. They heard one of the men rustling through the dark, circling the camp to keep an eye out for danger.

"We should be riding," Argus said.

"You don't want to ride through the Plains after dark," Ramza said. "Panthers sometimes hit the roads."

"Panthers," Argus scoffed. "You have such things here?"

"I hear you have worse than that, in the Wastes," Ramza said.

"Ydoran ruins are always full of monsters," Argus said dismissively. "This is different. This should be civilized."

"It is," Ramza said.

"Is it?" Argus said. "Monsters on your roads. On four legs and on two."

Ramza was silent. Argus sighed. "Apologies, Lord Beoulve," he said. "I'm not...I just want to find the Marquis."

"We will," Ramza said. "And Argus, please. I'm not a lord by any means. Just a cadet."

Silence again. The stars gleamed indifferently overhead.

"From Gariland?" asked Argus. Ramza nodded, and Argus said, "I couldn't go. I'm glad, actually. I think I learn more as a squire."

Ramza nodded uncertainly. The practice of squiring had fallen out of fashion as Ivalice had grown centralized, but it was still in vogue in some places, having young men serve as apprentice soldiers. It lacked the consistency of a Gariland education, but there was probably something to be said for someone learning in a more specialized fashion.

"The Marquis chose me himself," Argus whispered. "Granted me an audience. Said I had potential." Another flinching look of hurt in his eyes. "It's my fault, Lor-Ramza."

"It's not, Argus," Ramza said. "What could you have done?"

"I don't know!" Argus shouted. "Something. I could have...surely..."

The man in front of him looked so markedly wretched.

"You survived," Ramza said. He felt the man's blood flecking against his face again, and repeated himself. "You _survived_. We all did. Now we...we have to try to do more."

Argus nodded, but said nothing else. Eventually they gave in to the exhaustion of the day's events, and the next think Ramza knew he was being shaken awake, his clothes damp with morning dew.

"It's time," Delita said, helping Argus to his feet.

Ramza gazed blearily between them. Two killers, while his hands were still clean.

"Argus," Ramza said. The squire looked at him, and he said, "Thank you for saving me."

Argus flushed. "It was _you_ who saved _me_ , milord."

As dawn stretched its golden fingers over the Plains, they rode for Igros.


	6. Chapter 5: The Weight of a Name

**Chapter 5: The Weight of a Name**

 _The rise of Delita Heiral has everything to do with the 50 Years' War. War shook Ivalice from its roots to its highest branches. Commoners, soldiers, knights, nobles, and kings perished in equal measure. The War of the Lions was as much a product of the power vacuum created by all this chaos as it was the fruit of the ambitious. By the time the War of the Lions was over, the great houses were all but extinct, including House Beoulve, House Larg, House Goltana, House Orlandeau, House Thadolfas..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

"Well," Dycedarg said. "You've had a _hell_ of a homecoming, Ramza."

He was seated behind the ornate wooden desk in his office, lounging back in his chair. The golden light of dusk leaked through the latticework window behind him, shining over bookshelves and the polished stones of his walls and floors. His hair was perfectly coiffed, his goatee perfectly trim. Service leaned against the left side of his desk.

Ramza, Delita, Argus, and Beowulf were seated in front of him in rather comfortable chairs. All four were still rather dirty: the moment they had reached the Hokuten garrison on the outskirts of the city, the four young men had been rushed to Beoulve Manor to give their report.

"That wasn't my intention," Ramza said.

"Well, you managed it all the same," Dycedarg said. He smiled slightly. "Three cadets and one squire up against ten hardened anarchists, and here you sit."

Ramza shook his head. "It was just luck."

"I wish I had been so lucky at your age," Dycedarg said. "You do me proud, Ramza. You do the Beoulves proud."

Ramza flushed, gratitude and warm pride mixing with the memory of another man's blood on his lips. "Thank you," he said.

"I could do without your bad news, of course," Dycedarg sighed. "The Marquis was en route to discuss joint operations _against_ the Corps. Now he's their prisoner? And taken by men wearing Hokuten cloaks..." He shook his head. "It seems to be that there's a traitor somewhere," he said. "We'll have to find out who."

"My lord," Argus said, falling from his chair into a perfect kneel, one knee on the ground, bracing his other fist to support him (and managing to fall out onto his uninjured limbs, to boot). "Please. Give me 50 men and I will save the Marquis from this common scum."

Dycedarg looked down over his long nose at Argus. He raised his thin eyebrows and glanced between Ramza, Beowulf, and Delita.

"50 men," Dycedarg repeated.

"I would not dare ask for more."

"Frankly you dare enough, Argus Thadolfas," Dycedarg said. Argus flinched as though struck. His eyes were fixed on the ground, and he did not rise.

"You are a stranger to Gallione," Dycedarg said. "You know nothing of our lands or our troubles, yet you presume you could lead 50 men of the Hokuten with greater skill than any of our commanders? Even if you had the knowledge, what man of the Hokuten would follow an untested squire of Limberry? And if we could find the men willing to follow you, who would trust you when they heard the name Thadolfas?"

Argus flinched again. There was a bleak silence throughout the room. Ramza looked between Delita and Dycedarg, wondering at the significance of the name, not quite daring to ask.

"Oh, rise," Dycedarg said, his voice softening. "I am not speaking against you, Argus. For all I know, you may the most honorable and talented man since the death of my father. But until you have such a reputation..."

"No," Argus said. "I understand." He rose from his kneeling position, retook his seat, and looked at no one in the room. Dycedarg sighed, and shook his head again.

"I am already in contact with Prince Larg, the Nanten, and key officials in Limberry to guarantee we have the means to find the Marquis," Dycedarg said. "And the whole of the Hokuten will search high and low until they find him. Rest assured, Argus: the Marquis will be found, and I will personally see to see it that when he is, he knows of your deeds, and your devotion."

Argus nodded jerkily, but said nothing.

"In the meantime," Dycedarg continued. "I'd say you've earned some rest. At noon tomorrow, Ramza and Delita will be enlisted as full members of the Igros garrison. Argus, you have my leave to join them, if you so wish. As for you, Mr. Daravon-"

"I'll leave tomorrow," Beowulf said. "Not sure what the Academy has left to teach me, but-"

"Yes, about your report," Dycedarg said. "You're claiming that your chocobo, and I quote, 'did a sweet flip while I chopped two dudes' heads off'?"

"It's a metaphor," Beowulf said.

"For what, Mr. Daravon?"

"Depends," Beowulf said. "What's a metaphor?"

"Please leave."

"No sweat," Beowulf said, and sprang up from his seat, strolling jauntily into the hall of the Beoulve Manor. Ramza, Delita, and Argus rose to follow. Ramza spared one backwards glance at his brother: Dycedarg had already begun to peruse some papers on the desk in front of him, and did not so much as look up at the cadets leaving him.

"He's as cheery as ever," Delita muttered, falling into step besides Ramza as they passed quickly over the carpeted floors.

"He's got a lot on his mind," Ramza said.

"Sure."

They were almost to the exit of the Manor. Argus was racing ahead, almost past Beowulf in spite of the bandages on his arm and leg.

"Delita," Ramza said. "Why does Thadolfas..."

He trailed off, unsure of which question to ask. Why did the name mean no Hokuten would ever follow Argus? Why did Delita recognize it? Why did it seem to cause Argus such pain?

Delita said nothing for a moment. "Ramza," he said. "You are so daunted by your father's legacy that you can barely try to live up to it, much less dream of surpassing it."

Ramza felt his stomach hollow out with embarrassment. "Delita-" he started.

"That's how much your father's good example defines you," Delita said. "Imagine how much worse it would be if it were a bad example."

Ramza said nothing, tried to wrap his head around the idea of his father's legacy being something evil. He almost laughed. He would have, if he had not seen the terrible pain in Argus' face.

They left one of the Manor's side entrances and strolled through its lush grounds, irrigated by the delicate Ydoran aqueducts they had acquired along with the property. Argus stared down into one of the ducts, his face illuminated by the shimmering light reflected off the water. He did not look at any of them. Delita grabbed Beowulf's shoulder.

"I'm a little surprised, Wulfie," Delita said. "You're already going home?"

Beowulf shrugged. "I came," he said. "I saw. I kicked some ass. I'm almost out of things to do." He lifted his eyes to the nearby hills that separated the Beoulve Manor from Igros proper and grinned. "Almost."

Ramza and Delita followed his gaze. Three women had crested the hill. Flanking the woman in the center were Alma and Teta. Two years had seen them turn from girls to women, but had not otherwise changed their serious faces. They were a little more distinguishable in dress: Alma wore the Ydoran rings and bangles befitting her station, where Teta had no such accoutrements. Further Alma's dresses had the luxurious shine of newness, while Teta's were a little careworn. However, Teta still looked rather regal. Her dresses may have been Alma's hand-me-downs, but they fit perfectly.

The third woman was taller than both of them, and somehow more regal by far. Hell, she was taller than Ramza and Delita, nearly as tall as Beowulf himself. Her clothes were simple—loose beige trousers and a pink high-collared shirt. She moved with martial ease and wore a gleaming Virgo symbol on a chain around her neck. A faint smile toyed with her thin lips, and a wave of light brown hair cascaded down her back. She was a few years their senior.

"Took your time getting back, Ramza," Alma called.

Ramza almost smiled. "Sorry," he said. "There was this whole kidnapping thing."

"Excuses," she scoffed, and by then she was close enough to hug him. Teta did the same to Delita.

"How we doing, boys?" Reis asked, as the sisters embraced their brothers.

"Beowulf called you a thing," Delita said, ruffling Teta's hair.

"It's only because I don't respect you as a person," Beowulf said.

"Well that's okay then," Reis said. She slipped a hand around Beowulf's head and pulled him close for a kiss.

"Thank God you're here," Alma said, pulling away from Ramza. "Teta would not stop talking."

"That's unusual," Ramza said, glancing at Teta.

"It's not every day your brother fights ten men single-handed," Teta huffed.

"Single-handed!" Beowulf exclaimed, jerking away from Reis to glare between Teta and Delita.

"No, Beowulf's right," Delita said. "Argus helped some."

"Argus?" Alma asked. She glanced towards the taciturn young man, staring off into the sky. Argus started, and fell to one knee.

"Apologies, my ladies," Argus said. "I forgot myself."

"Only one lady here," Reis said. "But I do love the sight of a man on his knees."

Argus gaped at her. Reis and Beowulf smirked at each other.

"It's an honor to meet you," Teta said, kneeling and smiling into Argus' face. "Thank you for taking care of my brother."

Argus shook his head. "No, my lady," he said. "It is I who should thank you. Were it not for your brothers...were it not for Beowulf..." He lowered his eyes to the ground.

"The man fancies himself a martyr," Delita grunted, hauling Argus upright. "Come on, you moron. You survived where a dozen trained knights couldn't, and with two arrows in you you felled more men than any of us."

Argus' face struggled between shock, pride, and gratitude. It made him look very young.

"Well, what are you boys still doing here?" Reis asked.

"What do you mean?" Ramza replied.

"When do you have to report for duty?" she said.

"Not until noon," Delita said.

"So why aren't you hitting the town? Celebrating the way heroes should?"

"Well, that depends," Beowulf said. "Would a certain Templar-in-training be able to take the night off?"

"When you're this good," Reis said. "They basically let you do what you like."

Ramza considered, and looked among the others. Alma had a mischievous smirk on her face, and Teta's eyebrows were arched in sardonic amusement. Delita had a rare, broad smile on his face.

"Alright," Ramza said. "Why not?"

* * *

Gariland is a city for students. It imports most of its essential goods, and its amusements are few and far between. By contrast, Igros is a proper city. Prince Larg's spacious castle overlooks the whole wide town of cobbled streets and wooden buildings. Prosperity comes with its share of entertainments. Gambling halls, stages for the theater, stages for dancers, and more than a few taverns.

By the time the town bells were ringing midnight, Ramza was reasonable confident they'd seen the majority of what there was to see.

They'd ended up at the Mage's Mystery, a strange little place hidden behind a bookstore. The furniture was absurdly comfortable, plush chairs and sunken sofas in myriad colors. All second-hand, and the friendly barkeep admitted that the owner had bought it off minor nobles fallen on hard times for cheap. Sad origins, maybe, but it made for a fine place to lounge back with a drink in hand, especially given the dusky light that glowed softly out from the runes etched near the ceiling all around the room.

"Ugh!" huffed Alma, folding her arms angrily in front of her. "Why can't _I_ go to the Military Academy?"

"Little late now, isn't it?" Ramza asked, felling pleasantly light-headed. He'd had at least one drink at each stop, and he was not one to partake normally, so he felt warm and slightly dizzy, like his eyes were lagging just a second behind his head.

"I _know_ , Ramza," Alma said, glaring at him. Her cheeks were flushed and her wide green eyes blazed with accusations. "But I _wanted_ to."

"Don't blame Ramza for social conventions," scoffed Reis. Beowulf had fallen asleep in the crook of her neck about a half an hour ago, and somehow Reis still looked commanding with one arm wrapped protectively around him. "One of the few problems with being a noble lady, neh? Someone's got to carry on the line, and all the men are gonna be too busy murdering each other to guarantee that. So you get your defensive spells and your lessons on politics."

"Sounds boring as hell," Delita said, leaning forward on his elbows.

"You have no idea," Alma said.

"You like it?" Delita asked, glancing at Teta.

Teta shrugged. "It's boring," she agreed. "But it's not so bad. The others treat me nice enough." She looked around the table. "Are we running out of drinks?"

"We are!" Alma said, shoving a bag of gil towards her. "Grab the next round?"

"On it," Delita said. He and his sister rose, each swaying slightly, and took a slightly zigzagging path towards the bar.

Alma grabbed Ramza's arms, pulled his eyes back to her. Her anger was gone: now she seemed desperately sad. "Ramza," she said. "It isn't true."

Ramza blearily tried to follow along. "What's...what's not true?"

"Teta," Alma said. "She's not happy."

"Why would she be?" Reis asked. "She's trying to live in a hornet's nest."

Ramza shook his head. "What do you mean?"

Alma waved her hand. "The Preparatory Academy...it's all mind-games and politics, everyone trying to get in with the right nobles, with the right people, to make themselves important. I'm a bastard Beoulve, Ramza, but I'm still a Beoulve. The girls won't give me much trouble. But Teta? She doesn't matter, and they all know it. They take their anger out on her, because they know she can't do anything to stop them."

Ramza glanced at Delita, laughing with his sister at the bar. He thought of Cadet Madoc's disdain. He remembered how may other Cadets had acted the same way.

"I've seen it happen," Ramza said.

"But it's worse for her, Ramza," Alma said. "Delita's...Delita's good, right?"

"Better than me," Ramza said.

"No time for your self-pity, Ramza!" Alma said. "Delita's good. He can prove himself in other ways. The Academy...there's nothing she can do."

What a bleak thought.

"So what can _we_ do?" Ramza asked.

Alma's eyes shone. "If I can come up with something," she said. "You'll help me convince Dycedarg?"

Ramza felt a cold flash of trepidation. "Oh," he said.

"Ramza!" Alma whispered fiercely.

"I know," Ramza said. He did. This was important. But the idea of telling his brother what he should do...in what world was that his place? In what world...?

From the corner of his eye, he saw a slumped figure raise a glass to his lips. Ramza turned his head slightly, and saw Argus drinking alone in the corner. Thoughts of Dycedarg led him back to thoughts of their meeting earlier today. To the name Thadolfas, and of the pain it seemed to bring Argus.

"Yes," Ramza said, looking back at Alma. "If you come up with something, I'll help."

He rose from the table, ruffling Alma's hair, and crossed to Argus. He felt himself stumble slightly, felt that strange warm drunken doubt ( _Am I doing the right thing? Would I do this sober? Does it matter?_ ) but hardened his resolve. He sat down in the chair across from Argus slightly harder than he intended, so it rattled against the wooden floors.

"Argus," he said.

Argus looked up from his miserable slump. A royal Healer had seen to his wounds before they'd met with Dycedarg, so only the faintest hints of yellow bruising remained on his face, so his features were much clearer. A broad jaw was matched by wide cheeks and a wide expanse of forehead, all carved by sharp worry lines. It gave the impression of a face prone to intensity and passion.

"Milord?" Argus said.

"Stop that," Ramza said, shaking his head. "I'm no one's lord."

"You're a Beoulve," Argus said. "Better than me."

Ramza blinked. He felt the awful weight of his name again.

"Argus," he said. "My father took a mistress during the War. A young widow with some money. His wife had just died, you see, and he...well."

It was always hard, to think of Balbanes so human. The idea that he could be lonely. He had seemed so strong, even in the throes of the plague.

"She gave birth," Ramza said. "To me. To Alma. Then the plague took her. He decreed us Beoulve. Had us brought up in the Manor." He leaned forwards. "I'm no lord, Argus. I'm just a bastard with a better father than most."

Argus stared up at him and gave a lurching shrug. "So what?" he asked. "Bastard or not, the Beoulve blood is in your veins, and you had your father's blessing. You had his honor and his reputation."

Such bitterness in his words.

"Argus," Ramza said. "What's wrong with the name Thadolfas?"

Argus flinched. "You know," he said.

"I don't," Ramza said. "Remember, I was...I wasn't born into the house. I don't know what I'm supposed to know."

"Heh," grunted Argus. "No, I guess not. Every noble from Limberry to Gallione knows the name Thadolfas."

"Why, Argus?" Ramza asked.

Argus grabbed his transparent glass and swigged down the amber liquid inside. He shivered, eyes closed.

"You know," Argus said. "More than one Thadolfas was named Marquis. We can trace our line all the way back to the founding of Ivalice. We've been generals and heroes and kings and dukes and..." He sighed. "There was a time that the Thadolfas family was as beloved in Limberry as the Beoulve family is in Gallione."

Another long silence. Argus made as though to drink from his glass, then gave it a sad once-over as he realized it was empty.

"My grandfather," Argus said, setting his glass down in a clumsy clatter. "Was on the front lines when the 50 Years' War broke out. Second-in-command to the Limberry units, which meant he could spit and hit an Ordallian. He was a clever man, y'know." Argus tapped his temple. "Real head for politics. Untarnished, no matter how much dirt his rivals tried to throw at him. So now he's at war, and he's got a chance to really make something of himself. He was hungry for glory. Took a scouting party deep into enemy territory, and got himself captured."

"That's bad enough," Argus said. "But my grandfather, he doesn't want to suffer, and he doesn't want to be ransomed. He's going to escape, y'see. Got a whole story worked out, tricking the guards and heading home. Y'know how he does it?"

Argus was smiling, and it was one of the most hateful faces Ramza had ever seen. The eyes were just too wide, the lips curled back over the teeth. He looked like a snarling animal.

"He's gonna let every man in his scouting squad die," Argus said. "And he sells out the battle plans of a Lesalian unit. One of the king's personal regiments. Sells out his king and his men so he can avoid a little pain and win a little glory."

Ramza felt a squirming guilt in his gut, like worms writhing in his belly.

"And it worked, Ramza!" Argus barked. "He was walking out of the gate with a map of the Ordallian lines. Nothing _real,_ mind. Confirmation of what Ivalice already knew. But that's not his fault, is it! He was captive! How was he to know? Give our forces _just_ enough so it really looked like a daring escape."

"Problem was, he hadn't counted on his squire. This commoner lad, a stable boy that my great grandfather had taken pity on before he died. This commoner heard, see. He was in the cell. He _actually_ escaped. And he made damn sure my grandfather didn't."

A heavy silence. Argus stared blearily at his empty glass.

"And then he ran for home. Told everyone what had happened. They made the boy a knight for it."

"So everyone heard," Argus finished. "That the lord of House Thadolfas would gladly betray his men, his king, and his country all for the sake of a little personal comfort and glory. Who would ever trust such a man?"

Argus sighed and slumped forward onto his crossed arms. He closed his eyes.

"Father wouldn't believe it," Argus said. "To him, grandpa was like a god. How could a god be so monstrous? But everyone knew. The Marquis. The king. Wasn't our fault, but we were Thadolfas. We were traitors by blood."

He raised his eyes to Ramza. "Know why I'm not a cadet, milord?" he said. "Because the Academy wouldn't take me. No one would take me. House Thadolfas was to die in dishonor, with me the last of it. Except..."

He sighed and shook his head. "Except I went to see the Marquis, and that fool gave me an audience. Rose from his seat, pulled me to my feet, and told me I was to be his squire. His p _ersonal_ squire. A member of the Marquis' retinue. Less than any Thadolfas had been. More than we had any hope of being."

 _"His_ squire?" Ramza repeated.

"His!" affirmed Argus, nodding. "He looked me in the eye and told me that we all pay for the sins of our fathers. That's all Ivalice has done since the Ydorans killed the Savior. But maybe there would be a time we'd paid enough. A time when we'd see salvation and redemption. A time when we would stand as equals. And he would not throw away a man for the sins of his father."

He buried his head in his arms again. His voice was muffled. "And now he's gone. And I can't save him."

Ramza did not know what to say. His mind, curiously, was not on Argus. It was on Argus' father. On the son of the man who had betrayed his liege lord, his king, and his followers. On the son who would not believe his father's evil.

 _That's how much your father's good example defines you. Imagine how much worse it would be if it were a bad example._

He said nothing, but reached over and ruffled Argus' hair. The man groaned in protest.

A heavy hand closed upon Ramza's upper arm.

"I think your friend's had rather too much to drink," said a low voice.

Ramza was jerked to his feet. He turned glaring eyes up into the face of the man grabbing him, and felt his surprise and anger melt away in shock. To him, his brother Zalbaag was always the man of military precision in his glossy black armor. To see him like this—in plain beige clothes, with a hooded cloak pulled over his bearded face—was so unexpected that it left Ramza rather at a loss for words.

He allowed himself to be pulled along and flung down into a chair. He saw Argus had come along for the ride, and everyone at their table was staring at Zalbaag, who grinned and threw back his cloak.

"What?" Zalbaag said. "Are you really that surprised to see me?"

"Yes," Delita said.

"You shouldn't be," Zalbaag said. "I've lived in this town longer than any of you. I grew up here, and I had a damn sight more fun than Ramza while I did it." He grinned at his brother. "Though even _I_ didn't manage to fight off ten revolutionaries as a cadet."

Ramza shook his head. "It wasn't me."

"Spare me your modesty," Zalbaag scoffed. "Any way you slice it, you were outnumbered more than two to one by hardened criminals and you put _them_ to flight. If you were a bystander, Ramza, you still did more than some men ever dream."

Beowulf snored on Reis' soldier. There was almost a note of protest in the sound. Zalbaag lowered his eyebrows in a suspicious once-over. "Are you even asleep?" Zalbaag asked.

"Maybe," Beowulf grunted, eyes still closed.

"What are you doing here?" Alma asked.

"Is it so hard to believe I came to celebrate with my brother?" Zalbaag asked.

"Again, yes," Delita said.

"Smart man," Zalbaag said. "Well. I thought you ought to be informed, given that you were the ones who discovered the Marquis' kidnapping."

"Informed?" Argus whispered, leaning forward and almost toppling over.

"Oh yes," Zalbaag said. "A Hokuten soldier delivered the message from Gariland. The Marquis is held in an undisclosed location, and will be executed unless the Corps is paid some five million gil."

Ramza's jaw dropped. "Five _million_?

"A reasonable price for the liege lord of Limberry," Zalbaag said.

"Common curs!" spat Argus.

"They are, aren't they?" Zalbaag asked. "But they don't think of themselves that way."

"No," Delita said. "They're revolutionaries who will tear down the nobility and build a better Ivalice. Why ransom their enemy when they can kill him?"

"Because they're whoresons!" shouted Argus, a little too loudly. But suddenly Ramza noticed that the bar was empty, save for the barkeep busily cleaning glasses at the rear of the place. When had it emptied out? How had it emptied out? He turned back to his brother, studying his enigmatic face intently.

"Whoresons and anarchists," Zalbaag agreed. "Who would tear down the Crown and the Church and leave our Ivalice a worse den of heretics and hedonists than it ever was under the Ydorans. But they fancy themselves righteous. So the question is: why would righteous men ever taint their hands like this?"

"Greed," hissed Argus.

"Argus," Delita said, putting a hand on the other man's wrist. He looked into Zalbaag's face. "Any idea?"

"Oh, no," Zalbaag said. "I've no idea what such common minds might scheme. Of course, I had men to tell me such things. Spies in the ranks of the Corps. I was supposed to hear from such a man, in Dorter, but...well. He's gone silent. I mentioned this to our brother," he added, glancing at Ramza. "But he thinks it's a waste of time. The Hokuten are stretched thin enough, and Limberry is angry indeed. He thinks we should concentrate south of Mandalia and north along the Rhana Strait. That's where the bastards are supposed to be based. So that's what I'll do. Follow my orders."

He rose again, smiling around them. "Ramza," he said. "I'm really proud of you. But you know, technically, this outing constitutes desertion."

Ramza tensed, his jaw dropping. He saw Delita flinch across the table from him.

"Or it would," amended Zalbaag. "But you're all cadets until noon tomorrow. Until then, there's no legal remedy the Hokuten could take against you. So at noon, you'll be deputized Hokuten, and you'll be subject to all our orders and regulations. I don't envy you. I always found guard duty terribly boring. Maybe you disagree. Still!"

He pulled out a heavy bag of gil and thumped it down upon the table. "I think it's best you enjoy yourself, before you get deputized," he said cheerfully "That should cover your expenses. I just expect any change back when you come home."

He grabbed his brother's hand and shook it firmly. He turned to Alma and hugged her. He waved jauntily to the barkeep, who nodded his farewell. "Oh," he said conversationally. "There's a stable south of town I think I might have forgotten to garrison. It's the one his chocobo was quartered in." He jerked his head towards Beowulf. "Would you lot mind checking for me, and reporting on it?"

"We'll try, sir," Delita said.

"Too kind of you, boys," Zalbaag said. "And congrats, again."

He left the bar quickly, pulling his hood up as he went. Ramza stared after him, then looked around the table in astonishment. Argus' eyes were blazing, and a disbelieving smile was on Delita's face. Ramza felt his stomach lurching.

"Well," Beowulf said, rising to his feet. "We'd best get moving."

"Alright," Reis said. "Do try not to think too hard on what you'll be missing out on."

Beowulf stared at her, then looked around the table. "Well," he said. "I guess we don't _have_ to leave at once-"

"Oh yes we do," Delita said, pulling him away from Reis. "And you!" he said to the older woman. "You're just cruel."

Reis' smile widened. "The boy wasted his time," she said. "He should know better."

"What are we..." Argus shook his head as though that would clear the fog of drunkenness. "Did he really mean-?"

"Mean what?" Delita asked. "He just wanted congratulate us. We'd best attend to our duties."

"Del," Ramza whispered. "Are you sure...?"

"No," Delita answered. "But it's worth doing, don't you think?"

"Yes!" shouted Argus.

Delita flashed that strange smile at Argus. When he turned towards Teta, however, his face was serious. "I'm sorry," he said. "Guard duty-"

"Can keep one busy, I'd imagine," she said, as serious as her brother. "Well, I'll see you soon, all the same."

"Yeah," Delita said, embracing her. "You will."

Ramza looked at Alma, his head full of the night's strangeness—of the Marquis, of Thadolfas, of Teta, and of Zalbaag's figure, daunting in armor or in plainclothes. "Well-" he started, unsure of what to say, unsure of how he felt.

"Be safe," she said.

"I'll try," Ramza said. "Let me know if you..." His eyes flickered to Teta.

"You have bigger things to worry about," she said, hugging him.

Beowulf looked at Reis. "Not even a kiss?" he asked hopefully.

"You want another?" she said. "Then you'd best stay alive."

The three cadets and the lonesome squire exchanged helpless glances, then made their stumbling way towards the door. Ramza took a moment to stare at the barkeep, who smiled at him "Haven't seen Lord Zalbaag in an age," the barkeep said. "Old friend. Helps us out in times of trouble. Always points us towards good sales. Among other things."

Again, he felt the shadows of the Dycedarg and Zalbaag, looming nearly as tall as his father. Suddenly he felt very small and very unsure of himself, even with Zalbaag's endorsement. What was he doing, riding off drunk into the night on some fool's errand? How had his brothers managed so much? How could Ramza hope to do the same?

But he had his name, Beoulve. He had the love of his siblings and the hopes of his father, and he had it on good authority that there was a chocobo stable unguarded to the south of town and a trading city a ways to the east where a man with answers might suddenly have gone missing. And more than that, he had a man who wanted desperately to repay the lord who had shown him such kindness, when his grandfather's terrible shadow had almost robbed him of all hope. That was a cause Ramza could understand, even in all his confusion.

He followed his friends out into the night.


	7. Chapter 6: Of Merchants and Murders

**Chapter 6: Of Merchants and Murders**

 _The oldest cities of Ivalice follow a certain order. They are built along Ydoran frameworks, and the Ydorans had a gift for architectural planning that was not rediscovered until the time of King Delita. Dorter lacks such careful organization. It was not chosen because it was a suitable location for a city. How could it be? Located somehow betwixt shale hills, a dour bay, and a rancorous swamp, it is even now a nightmare of a place to live, a patchwork of careful luxury and disordered slum. It was founded because, during the chaos of the Fall, it was convenient to the wealthy interests of Ivalice to meet there rather than risk the long trek to their respective seats of power. East of Gallione and Murond, south of Fovoham and Zeltennia, west of Limberry and north of Lionel. It was a place where the rich got richer while the poor scrabbled in the mud. Such a place made an ideal recruiting ground for rebels across history, such as the Death Corps..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "A Sociological, Economic, and Political Encyclopedia of the Cities of Ivalice"_

Ramza rapped out two slow knocks upon the door. He waited a moment, then rapped out three knocks in quick succession. When no one answered, he slipped his key into the door, turned the lock, and slipped inside.

They had been in Dorter a little less than a week, but the room seemed like it had held them for longer than that. There were only two small beds inside and two bedrolls on the floor, and for the sake of fairness the four men rotated between them. For convenience, each man had his own corner to keep his stuff, but between them they had still managed to leave trash and old food on tables and shelves and on the floor itself. Perhaps the innkeep could have dealt with it, if they had not given strict, _expensive_ instructions to leave their room alone.

One more frustration, in a city fully of them.

They had set out from Igros late into the night, all still a little too drunk to manage their chocobos, Ramza's head full of his warnings of panthers. He swore he had seen one keeping even pace with them, perhaps trying to decide if they were easy prey or not. They had rested sparingly, driven on by Argus' desperation. Ramza was not entirely sure the Limberry squire had slept during the four days' hard riding that had brought them and their exhausted mounts to Dorter.

From his first glimpse, Dorter had made Ramza nervous. Dorter was a sprawling anarchy, the guarded palaces of minor nobles and wealthy merchants, the rows of stalls and vendors with their own armed attendants, the diseased tenements where the vast mass of Dorter's population tried to eke out some form of a living. The exhausted, saddlesore men had riden through the crowded streets, eyes wide and searching. Igros was nothing like this. No place Ramza had seen was like this.

Six days later, and Ramza felt still more unsettled.

The four of them had no real plans when they'd set off from Igros: just Zalbaag's words and what little they could piece together. A spy for the Hokuten had gone missing in Dorter, and that had to somehow be connected to the Marquis. Now, they had to find out how.

In the end, they had decided to each play a role they thought themselves best suited for. They had gotten this room on the edge of town, paid extra for a guarantee of privacy, and made sure to move on their own so no one would suspect they were colluding.

To be honest, Ramza had thought to crack this thing in the first day or two. With his nicer clothes and his brother's sack of money, he had played the agent of an up-and-coming Igros merchant looking to break into Dorter. The lie did not come easily to him, which Delita thought was a good thing. Delita believed that, if Ramza appeared naïve and unsure, men might speak more freely in his presence, hoping to cow, awe, take advantage of, or intimidate him. It was not exactly a flattering picture, but all Ramza wanted to do was find the spy in question.

He hadn't managed that. What he had managed was to be warned off by friendly aides and vendors. This was not a good time to break into the Dorter markets: word had it that the Death Corps was shaking down merchants, particularly ones dependent on the convoys and caravans. The Corps levied a "common tax" for use of the "common roads." Those who did not pay could not guarantee the safety of their cargo.

"Rank banditry!" Argus had snarled.

"Yes, it is," Delita agreed. "And _not_ what the Corps is supposed to do."

"They're common criminals," Argus hissed.

"These are," Delita said, nodding. "But why would a group that wants the support of the people threaten them like this? No, this is a short-sighted move. It's not Corps' practice or policy. But it's just the kind of thing people who want to ransom the Marquis would do."

That had all been during their first day of inquiry, and Ramza thought they might find their man by the second. That had been absurdly optimistic, as he had discovered: most who were actually willing to talk just repeated some version of the story. The rest tried to lure Ramza into bribing them, or attempted to scam him out of his gil. Six days later, and he had nothing to show for it but a slightly lighter moneybag.

There was a knock at the door—two knocks, a pause, then three faster knocks. Ramza moved to the door and swung it open, admitting a dour Argus.

"No luck?" Ramza said.

"Luck!" spat Argus.

"I'll take that as a no," Ramza sighed.

Argus slunk into a chair. Given that there was no chance of hiding his Limberry brogue, they'd decided it was best for Argus to play with his cards face up: a man of the Marquis' retinue now charged with seeing him safely back home. He was authorized to pay the ransom, if he could find the man. He was also authorized to kill any citizens of Gallione he had to.

"The Limberry merchants don't _know_ anything," growled Argus. "Except that there's talk of war in Limberry."

"War?" Ramza said. "With who?"

"With the Corps," grunted Argus. "With the Hokuten. With the Crown. It'll come to nothing and the in the meantime no one _does_ anything."

"And the rest?" Ramza said.

"No one wants to piss off these common bastards," Argus said, shaking his head. "They worry more about the Corps than the Crown. It's a bad state, Ramza."

No arguing that. If the people of Ivalice could not trust the Crown to protect them, how could they feel safe? How could they believe in the people who were supposed to keep them safe, when the Corps could disguise themselves as knights, kidnap the Marquis, and slaughter his escort without reprisal? How could justice ever be served?

The door burst open. Ramza dove at once for his sword, while Argus rolled backwards out of his chair and grabbed at his bow, an arrow already nocked.

"It's fine!" Beowulf shouted, with a cloth pack pressed to his face. "It's me!"

Ramza and Argus glared at him. "You are _supposed_ to knock!" shouted Argus.

"Waste of time," Beowulf said, sinking into a chair on the other side of the room.

"No, it's not," Ramza said. "Delita explained this." The knock was supposed to be their way of guaranteeing each others' identities, and possibly each others' lives. If someone learned who they were and what they were after, they would have to learn the knock as well, and that would require keeping anyone they captured alive.

"Look," Beowulf said. "If they've captured _me,_ you bastards were dead weeks ago."

"Whatever you say, Wulfie," Ramza said.

Beowulf glared at Ramza. Argus cleared his throat loudly.

"Oh, what!" Beowulf yelled, whirling to face him.

"Any. News?" Argus asked, through gritted teeth.

"Oh, sure," Beowulf said. "'Nother one of those killings. Family's added their bounty to the pot, so it's up to 1200 gil."

"1200?" Ramza said. "What riches. That's enough to keep this room for two whole nights."

"These aren't exactly rich families, Ramza," Beowulf said.

"I know." He stared off into space, thinking. Dorter was never peaceful at the best of times, but word had it that there had been a string of killings lately, men struck down in dark alleys or abandoned hovels.

Ramza's distant eyes found Beowulf's bruised face. "You got into _another_ fight?"

Beowulf scowled. "The bartender wouldn't believe me."

"That's because you look like a fifteen year-old running away from his dad," Ramza said. Beowulf had insisted on playing the role of a bounty hunter, which had led less to information and more to a series of fights and brawls whenever anyone expressed disbelief in Beowulf's story.

"I know about the murders," Beowulf said.

"What about them?" Ramza said. "That they happened?"

"More than that!" Beowulf said defensively. "These were executions. All sword wounds, real precise. Someone's taking these guys out."

"Could be the Corps," Argus said.

"Could be," Beowulf said.

"Or it could be unrelated," Ramza said. "As far as we know, this has _nothing_ to do with the Marquis."

There was a knock on the door: two slow knocks, a pause, and then three knocks in quick succession. Ramza set down his sword and pulled the door open: Delita stepped through, his sword at his side. Like Argus, Delita's story required little in the way of disguise.

He glanced wryly at Beowulf. "Another fight, Wulfie?" he asked.

Beowulf shrugged, and Delita shook his head. "None of you," he observed. "Are any good at this."

"And you're _too_ good," Argus said. "Should the rest of us be worried?"

"Why?" Delita asked. "Am I about to be discharged without pay?" He looked at Ramza.

"How could I do such a thing?" Ramza asked. "We don't pay you."

"See?" Delita said. "You're safe, Argus." He leaned against a wall, his arms folded across his chest.

"Any news?" Argus asked, his voice acerbic.

"Well, that depends," Delita said. "Nothing _new_ , exactly. But some interesting bits and pieces that look a little different now."

"How do you mean?" Ramza asked. Delita had chosen to play a bitter former member of a noble's staff, looking for revenge after the mistreatment of his father. He went by his real name and advertised his military training. Delita figured that would make him look more attractive to the Corps, although the idea seemed to make Argus awfully nervous.

But few men and women were foolish enough to express their support for the Corps, even to a would-be recruit. Delita had gone to any bar or meeting that would have him, but had been largely unsuccessful in making any contacts. The Marquis' kidnapping had sent most Corps supporters to ground. No one wanted to be caught between the Hokuten and the knights of Limberry.

"Stop fucking around and tell us!" shouted Argus.

"Argus!" Ramza exclaimed.

Delita watched Argus impassively. Argus was breathing heavily, his face red.

"Sorry," Argus said. "Please."

"It's not much," Delita said. "Just trying to make everything fit. You know how many commanders the Corpse Brigade had?"

"Wiegraf Folles," Argus said. "The commoner who would be king."

"The commoner who would kill all kings," amended Delita. "But that doesn't matter to us. Wiegraf commanded the bulk of the Corpse Brigade, but had two chief lieutenants. His sister, Miluda, led an all-women unit called the Valkyries. The other was a man named Gustav Margueriff."

"Gustav?" Ramza repeated.

"He operated behind the Ordallian lines," Delita said. "Making it hard for them to get supplies, fomenting rebellion in the territory they'd occupied. The forces of Limberry might not have held out without them."

"And that gives them the right to hurt their lord?" Argus snarled.

"Argus!" Ramza said again. "Calm yourself!"

"I wasn't defending them," Delita said. "I was explaining. You have to understand your enemy if you hope to defeat them."

"And what does this history lesson tell us?" Argus growled.

"Well," Delita said. "All three were discharged without pay, as were their followers. That was when they led the Brigade into rebellion. That was when they became the Death Corps."

"And?" Argus demanded.

"Wiegraf's been hounding Igros and Lesalia," Delita said. "Using the old forts along the Lenalian Mountains and the Fovoham Plateau. Gives him lots of chances to disrupt the nobility. The Valkyries are supposed to be in Mandalia, harassing Hokuten patrols, making it impossible for them to gather their strength. So where's Gustav?"

"I take it you know?" Argus said.

"No idea," Delita said.

"Then _why bring it up_?" Argus yelled.

"Aargus!" Ramza shouted again, rising from his chair.

"No, Ramza!" Argus roared, whirling to face him. "They will _execute the Marquis if we don't find him_! And what are we doing? Wasting time talking to merchants and playing pretend. Or is it pretend, Delita?" Argus glared at the other man, still impassive on the wall.

"How many men have been killed now?" Delita asked, staring at Argus.

"How..." Argus trailed off, his glare softened by confusion.

"Uh, six," Beowulf said, his eyes flickering between the other men.

"Six," Delita said. "I wonder if one of them was Zalbaag's spy?"

Silence in the room. Ramza and the others glanced between them.

"What are you saying?" Ramza asked.

"I think I'm piecing something together," Delita said. "Six men, each killed very precisely. Executed, one might say. Why? I think it was because that knew too much."

"Too much about _what_ , Delita?" Ramza said. In spite of his admonishments to Argus, he was beginning to feel aggravated himself. Why was his friend insisting on being so enigmatic?

Delita shook his head. "Like I said. I'm figuring this out. We know the Corps is here, shaking down merchants for protection fees. Let's leave the fact that that's not what the Corps' is supposed to do: someone's doing it. So why haven't we run into them? We're all over this city. One way or another, we should have heard something. But the only thing we know for sure is that the six men are dead. Executed."

Ramza's annoyance was gradually draining away. He felt like he almost understood what Delita was aiming at. He could see the pieces clicking together.

"Six men are dead," Ramza repeated. "Executed."

"Just as the Corps seems to have disappeared from Dorter," Delita said. "After a series of shakedowns that violate Corps' policy. After the Marquis was kidnapped. And we don't know where Gustav Margueriff is, do we?"

"The men that took the Marquis...the men threatening the merchants..." Ramza thought to himself. "They're the same?"

"And they're gone," Delita said. "Except for these dead men."

"What does that matter?" Argus growled. "Dead men don't talk."

"No," Delita said. "But their living friends do."

Argus's mouth dropped. "What?"

"The man who died last night-" Delita started.

"Erik," Beowulf interrupted. "Erik Fulke."

"Erik," Delita continued. "He had a friend. Ivan Mansel. But wouldn't you know it, Ivan's gone missing."

"You think Ivan killed Erik?" Beowulf asked.

"I don't know," Delita said. "But I spoke with his mother, and I do know that Ivan and Erik used to play at a little hovel on the outskirts of the slums. Their little fort. And I heard from a man at a bar that Ivan used to host pro-Corps meetings there."

Argus' mouth dropped. "You...you don't think..."

"I think we've had no answers," Delita said. "And I think we've earned some. Don't you?"

Argus nodded jerkily. "Delita," he said. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing, Argus," Delita said. "If it were Ramza that had been taken, you think I'd be acting any different?"

"I'll be sure to get kidnapped next time," Ramza said. "See you put your money where your mouth is." From the corner of his eye, he saw a strange look pass over Argus' face, but it was gone as swiftly as it had come.

"What money?" Delita said. "You don't pay me."

Ramza moved to his sword, but hesitated. "Delita," he began. "You said we shouldn't all leave together."

"I did," Delita said. "But I have it on good authority that Ivan Mansel had supplies delivered to that hovel last week. If he's anywhere-"

"Then what are we waiting for!" Argus exploded.

"Not a damn thing," Delita said, and the four men set out into the night in pursuit of the first real lead they'd had since they left Igros.


	8. Chapter 7: In Search of Gustav

**Chapter 7: In Search of Gustav**

 _Of the Ydoran sword arts, perhaps none was more associated with the nobility than the Bursting Blade. By careful training, the practitioners of this art learned to channel their magical energies through their swords, focusing their power to unleash the bursts of magical energy for which the art is named. These blasts could prove as devastating as any mage's art, but the cost of learning it proved largely prohibitive. Without the amplifying materials and microrunes of a proper Ydoran blade, even men who learned the art were not often able to put it to use. Notable exceptions include Rosalind Selfina, Taran Singleton, and the infamous Wiegraf Folles. It's practitioners were commonly known as Mage Knights, though this term is somewhat misleading, as there is a marked difference between conventional magic and the Bursting Blade. For instance..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Sword Arts of Ivalice"_

Dorter was a stinking city, thick with too many men and no Ydoran plumping systems to efficiently deal with waste. The whole place always smelled damp and shitty, too crowded and too grimy. For the past six days, that smell had been discouraging: but when Ramza left the inn with his three friends in tow he inhaled as deeply as though he were on the Mandalia Plains again, a smile upon his face.

Beowulf had his twin blades on his hips: Ramza and Delita wore their matching blades: Argus had his bow and his quiver. They were moving, and that movement was certainty unto itself. It had been so long since they'd been able to move with purpose and direction, and they felt righteous and confident for it.

For those few moments where they walked across sun-baked mud with their weapons at hand, Ramza felt grand. He felt like a Beoulve: like a man equal to the challenges of the world. He felt like he could live up to his father's legacy.

That feeling vanished as thunder rolled across the clear blue sky, and a plume of smoke rose up from the city in front of them.

They stopped and stared, looking amongst themselves for answers. "Magic?" Beowulf suggested.

"As if those common bastards could learn it!" Argus said.

"Argus is right," Delita said. "The Corps' not supposed to have much in the way of mages."

But as the masses of Dorter began to flee from the smoke, Ramza and his friends plunged forward, weaving their way through the crowd. Ramza lost track of the others in the press: he could only see Delita's armor, and he focused on that to the exclusion of all else.

They emerged through the thick press and found the hovel Delita had been leading them towards, a one-story hut approximately the size of the room they'd been staying at. At least, that was Ramza's assumption: it was actually somewhat hard to tell, since half of it had exploded outwards into a smoking ruin. Two corpses lay face down among the debris, naked blades in their dead hands. There were still three living souls.

One was on his knees, while the other two had their swords at his throat. The two with pointed swords sent a peculiar thrill through Ramza that he could feel race down his spine and spread through his stomach and groin. Besides his brothers, he was not sure he had ever seen anyone look quite so _dangerous_.

They were a man and a woman, both in cloaks of green. The woman was imperious, with brown hair hanging down to her shoulders, a hooked nose and a well-defined jaw. Her dark eyes studied the man she was holding at swordpoint with clear distaste. The sword in her hand was steady.

The man besides her shared her rugged jaw and hooked nose, but his hair was lighter in shade, and his eyes somehow softer. His sword seemed to glow faintly, though this could just have been a trick of the light.

Argus drew his arrow. Delita grabbed him, and hauled him into a nook concealed behind some fallen debris. Ramza and Beowulf followed at once.

"Who's there!" shouted the woman, in a deep, authoritative voice. Ramza and the others remained behind their wall, while Argus struggled in Delita's grasp, glaring at him over the hand covering his mouth.

"Someone running," a male voice said, deeper still. "Leave it."

They heard the scuff of feet turning in the dirt. "The Folles," whispered Delita, and Argus stiffened. Ramza and Beowulf gaped at Delita.

Wiegraf and Miluda? The brother and sister who had led the Corpse Brigade? What on earth were they doing here? They were supposed to be harassing the Hokuten, to the north and south of Gallione.

"Now," Wiegraf continued. "Do I have to ask again, or are you going to insist on doing something foolish?"

"I don't...I don't know what'yer talking about," said a reedy thin voice.

"No?" Miluda said. "So why did your friends try to kill us?"

"Not my friends," grunted the reedy voice.

"Then whose friends?" Miluda said. "Gustav's?"

Silence. Ramza hesitated, then risked a quick peek around the corner. The Folles still had their blades on the young man's throat. He was looking down at the ground.

Wiegraf lowered his sword and dropped to one knee. "Ivan," he said. "I think those men were here to kill you. Just like they killed Erik."

The young man stiffened, and his eyes jerked up to Wiegraf.

"I think," Wiegraf continued. "That several of you didn't like what Gustav was doing here. I think you wanted to get help. I think he wanted to make sure you didn't get the chance."

"He-" Ivan whispered. "Erik...!" There were tears in his voice.

"I know," Wiegraf said, resting a comforting hand on Ivan's shoulder. "It's no easy thing, to be caught between the powerful. That's why the Corps exists. To make sure abuses such as these never go unpunished. To deliver justice to those who think themselves beyond its reach."

Ramza felt a fierce pang somewhere deep in his stomach. This was the leader of brigands and bandits who cut merchants to pieces on the roads? So why did he...

Why did he sound just a little like Balbanes?

"Erik!" Ivan sobbed.

"Graffy," Miluda said warningly. "Someone will come to investigate."

Wiegraf said nothing for a time, and then said, softly, "Where is he, Ivan?"

Ivan said nothing for several seconds. Ramza strained to hear.

"The cellar," Ivan whispered.

Wiegraf patted him on the shoulder, and rose to his feet. "Alright," he said. "Now, let's-"

Movement, from the corner of Ramza's eye. A blur, hurtling towards Wiegraf. He whirled, sliced, and two halves of a neatly-severed arrow hit the earth to either side of him.

"Graffy!" Miluda cried.

"Run!" Wiegraf shouted.

They hauled Ivan to his feet and took off down the street. Ramza turned disbelieving eyes on Argus as he nocked another arrow. He caught the fleeting look of fury on Delita's face, but it passed at once into that familiar, razor concentration.

"No time!" Delita shouted, and launched himself over their cover. Ramza and Beowulf followed, charging after their fleeing targets, all three men drawing their blades as they ran. Another arrow flew, and buried itself in the back of Ivan's leg. Ivan screamed, and Wiegraf cursed.

"Alright!" Wiegraf bellowed, releasing his hold on Ivan and turning to face them, drawing his shimmering sword. "We fight!"

Miluda turned with her own blade held at the ready. Ramza felt a moment's hesitation, tightening his grip on his sword. He stared at the man who'd sounded just a little like Balbanes, and wondered-

Ivan threw himself sideways, catching Ramza in the midriff, his legs tangling with Beowulf, his arms grappling with Delita. The four men fell in a gasping, struggling heap. Ramza tried to right himself, and heard Ivan give a strangled cry. "Run!"

Miluda and Wiegraf exchanged glances, then took off at a run. A third arrow flew, and bit into the ground where Miluda had been standing.

Delita hauled Ivan to his feet and socked him in the face. As he pitched to the ground, he shouted to Beowulf, "Hold him!" and went running after Wiegraf and Miluda. Ramza followed, but the Folles rounded a corner ahead of them. By the time they'd caught up, they were gone.

"Damn it!" hissed Delita. He turned sharply on his heel, striding back in the direction they'd come. Beowulf had a struggling Ivan pinned in the dirt, and Argus had come to join them.

"Stop struggling," grunted Argus, and kicked at the broken arrow in Ivan's leg. Ivan screamed.

"What the hell were you doing!" Delita demanded.

Argus' eyebrows arched. "Mad I hurt your commoner friends?"

"We weren't ready to move!" Delita roared.

"These curs hurt my comrades," spat Argus. "They took my Marquis. I am not going to let them get away."

"We could have learned more," Delita said. "We weren't ready to move. If you weren't too stupid to see that-"

"You dare-!"

"What do we do with him?" Ramza asked, kneeling besides Ivan.

"You bastards," sobbed Ivan. "You bastards."

Argus kicked the young man in the face, which gave a sickening _crack_ as blood spurted into the dust.

"Argus!" Ramza shouted, rising to his feet as Ivan howled in pain.

"These men would put an end to crown and country," growled Argus. "They deserve-"

"We take him with us," Delita said. "We need to know what he knows."

They glanced among themselves, then nodded, and hauled Ivan to his feet.

The journey back to the inn earned them no shortage of strange looks, but Ramza and Argus simply said, "Official business!" in their best commanding voices whenever anyone looked like they might interfere, and so managed to return to the inn. The innkeep might have been more suspicious, but several coins from Ramza's pouch seemed to convince him there was nothing worth his concern. Still, there was no telling who was in the city today, on the lookout for just such strangeness.

"Beowulf," Delita said. "Keep watch outside."

Beowulf nodded, and closed the door behind them.

They bound Ivan's hands behind his back. He had stopped struggling, blood trickling down his face, relying on them to keep him upright as his left leg trembled with the arrow still in it. Ramza could smell the blood. It reminded him of the blood he'd had upon his face.

The moment his hands were bound, Argus shoved the man forwards, and he hit the ground hard. He groaned into the floor.

Argus grabbed him by the hair, and jerked his head upright. His nose was crooked to one side, and his face crusty with blood. Ramza felt a fierce pang against his ribs. "Now," Argus said. "Where is the Marquis?"

The young man stared at Argus with dazed eyes. Argus pulled the man upright by the hair, and Ivan moaned in protest. "Found your tongue, maggot?" Argus asked. "Good. I'll ask again. Where is the Marquis?"

"I d-don't-" Ivan stuttered, and Argus threw him to the ground. As the man hit the floor, Argus placed his foot against the broken arrow shaft.

"Don't what?" Argus asked.

"Argus-!" Ramza started, but Delita grabbed him by the wrist and shook his head.

"Where is the Marquis?" growled Argus, and pressed his foot down. Ivan screamed.

"Enough," Delita said, moving forwards and pushing Argus aside.

"I'll say when there's enough," Argus said.

"Argus!" Ramza said warningly.

Argus gave him a wary look, then relented and stepped back against a nearby wall. Delita pulled Ivan to his feet and placed him gently in one of their chairs.

"You're Ivan, right?" Delita said.

The man said nothing. Delita smiled, as though he'd answered. "I'm Delita," he continued. "The nice man over there is Ramza. The thing behind me is Argus."

Argus gave a derisive snort.

"Ivan," Delita said. "How long you been in the Corps?"

Ivan continued to stare down at the floor, tears and blood mixing freely on his face.

"Not long, right?" Delita said. "I bet. Dorter's a hard place to live. Merchants and nobles just do what they want, and the rest of us have to beg for scraps."

Ivan's eyes lifted into Delita's face searchingly.

"But you didn't get the full story, Ivan," Delita said. "See, whatever else is going on: the Corps is finished. Limberry'll do it if the Hokuten won't. But the Corps can't fight an army. And the Crown doesn't care if you had a good reason for trying to kill them. They're gonna kill everyone who ever wore the crowned skull. They have to. To make sure this doesn't happen again."

Tears were welling in Ivan's eyes. He looked lost and hopeless, and terribly young. Ramza felt another pang against his ribs.

"Now, Ivan," Delita continued. "It seems to me you know something important. Wiegraf and Miluda wanted to know it, too. That's good. Good for us and good for you. Because you don't have to die. You tell us what we need to know, and you get to walk away."

"What?" Argus snapped, stepping away from the wall. Delita held up a forestalling hand.

"You don't tell us?" Delita said. "And I'm afraid I have to let my friend here get the information. However he can."

Gods. In what way was this just? How did torture and intimidation serve Ivalice?

Ivan's eyes were screwed up, tears falling freely. He was sobbing in earnest now. "It's not f-f-fair," he whimpered. "It's n-n-not. We d-deserve-"

"Oh, what!" Argus growled, shoving past Delita, knocking the chair backwards so Ivan pitched to the floor. The broken arrow in his leg jolted against the seat, and he squealed in pain. "What do you whoresons deserve! You turn against the crown! You turn against God! You kill merchants and men of honor, and you take heroes for ransom!"

"No!" shouted Ivan. "No! We don't! Gustav-!"

He broke off. Delita and Argus hauled the chair upright, bringing Ivan with it.

"Gustav Margueriff?" Delita said.

Ivan gave a shaky nod.

"What did he do?" Delita asked.

"He runs the Corps around here," Ivan whispered. "E-erik and me, we j-joined 'cause...'cause we wanted to m-make a d-d-difference. And he m-made us...h-he..." He broke off, breathing shakily.

"Made you what, Ivan?" Delita asked.

"We're supposed to be fighting back!" Ivan shouted. "We're supposed to be making the world better! Not hurting merchants! Not making them pay us! Not...not...!"

"Not kidnapping the Marquis," Delita finished.

Ivan nodded. "We're b-better than that."

Argus laughed nastily. "We're b-better than that!" he repeated, in a blubbering falsetto. "Better than what, maggot!"

"We're not thieves," Ivan said. "We don't hurt people." He looked up at Argus. "We're not like you."

"No," Argus said. "You're not." He stepped forwards. "Where is the Marquis?"

Ivan said nothing. Argus nodded, then threw himself forwards, raining blows down upon the young man. The chair snapped beneath him. Ivan's voice rose to a terrible screech, and the pang behind Ramza's ribs was like an arrow flying out from his heart.

"Enough!" shouted Ramza, grabbing Argus and hurling him backwards. He stared aghast first at Argus, fists wet with Ivan's blood: then at Delita, arms folded, face impassive; and then lastly to the fallen man, sobbing and whimpering as blood oozed from his wounds.

"Out," Ramza said. "Both of you."

Argus' jaw clenched. "Ramza-" he started.

"Out," Ramza repeated.

Argus hesitated, then left the room. Delita followed without a word.

Ramza knelt by the young man's side. As Ivan cried, Ramza gently pulled him from the broken chair. "I'm going to turn you over now," Ramza said. "Alright?"

When Ivan did not answer, Ramza turned him over. He pulled his bag towards him, and fished out his healing supplies. He studied the wound in the man's thigh, pulled a little at his trousers to expose the bloody flesh.

"This is going to hurt," Ramza said. "I'm sorry. But it will help you in the long run."

He set to work, as Ivan whimpered and gasped and moaned. First, pulling the arrow out in one sickening _squelch_ : then hastily dressing the wound with gauze and salve, hoping that not too much damage had been done in Ivan's many falls and blows. The overripe salty smell of blood and sweat was thick in his nose, and Ivan's blood was on his fingers.

Again. How many times would he bear the blood and never swing the sword?

He untied Ivan's bonds, and stretched him back along one of their bedrolls. He studied the man's bruised and bloody face.

"Better?" he asked.

Ivan hesitated, then nodded. Ramza looked towards the closed door.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said. His head was full of doubts again. The Corps had done monstrous things. They had taken the Marquis, who was in need of rescuing. He could hardly fault Argus for his desperation, but to cause such pain to such a man?

"For what?" Ivan croaked.

"About my friends," Ramza said. He paused, then added, "And about yours. Erik, right?"

Ivan closed his eyes and nodded again.

"Who killed him?" Ramza asked.

Ivan tried and failed to choke back a sob. "We w-wanted to...we..."

"It's alright," Ramza said. "It's not your fault."

"It is!" Ivan howled. "E-erik d-didn't want to! He was s-s-scared! I t-told him...it was our d-duty! We had to...we had to...!"

Ivan dissolved into sobs again. Ramza waited, tempted to comfort the boy in some way, unsure if he should. This was his prisoner, right? This was a member of those terrible bandits, those anarchists who would tear down all Ivalice. But Ivan didn't seem like that. Ivan seemed like a scared young man. Ivan seemed like Ramza.

"What did you have to do?" Ramza asked.

"To t-tell someone," Ivan said. "T-to t-t-tell Wiegraf, or..."

"Wiegraf," Ramza repeated, thinking of the gentle man in the streets of Dorter. "He's not like Gustav?"

Ivan shook his head fiercely. "He's gonna make the nobles pay," Ivan whispered. "Gonna make'em see. We got pride. We got...we're better. We're..."

"Not like Gustav," Ramza finished.  
Ivan shook his head again. Ramza was thinking of his father. About Justice and Service. About the way the Corps had undeniably been wronged. About the way Argus had been wronged.

"Ivan," Ramza said. "This Gustav, he...he had your friend killed?"

Ivan nodded, tears leaking out beneath his closed eyes. Ramza tried to imagine how he would feel if someone killed Delita, and felt cold dread creeping out from the pit of his stomach.

"He had your friend killed," Ramza repeated. "He's had merchants killed. He..."

He remembered the slaughter in the Plains. Remembered the mans' blood on his face.

"Someone needs to stop him," Ramza said, wondering if he had the strength to do it.

"Wiegraf will," Ivan said.

"Maybe," Ramza said. "He seems..." He didn't do the word. Daunting, he supposed. "But what if he can't?"

Ramza sat by Ivan's head, and Ivan breathed in shallow gasps, and neither spoke for a long time.

* * *

He pushed the door open, leading Ivan into the hall. Argus, Delita, and Beowulf stared at him. "What-" Argus started.

"Go home," Ramza said, nudging Ivan. "Stay safe."

"Ramza!" Argus said.

Ivan gave Argus a look of terror, but Ramza took him the shoulders. "It's over," Ramza said. "We'll see to that."

He looked from Ivan to the other men in the hall, one by one. Each reluctantly nodded, and Ivan nodded in turn, and limped down the hall.

"He's a traitor!" hissed Argus, when Ivan was out of sight.

"He's a young man who made a foolish mistake," Ramza said. "I think you of all people would know the value of forgiveness, Argus."

Argus reddened, but said nothing. Ramza turned towards Delita, who was studying him with a slight sad smile on his face.

"You're too soft, Ramza," Delita said.

"Maybe," Ramza said. "But I know where the Marquis is."

"You what!" Argus bellowed, grabbing Ramza by the shoulders.

"I know where the Marquis is," Ramza repeated.

"Where?" Delita asked.

"An abandoned trading post on the outskirts of the Zeklaus Desert," Ramza said. "A place they call the Sand Rat's Cellar."

Delita nodded. "Shouldn't be hard to find."

"What the hell happened in there?" Beowulf asked.

"We got what we needed," Delita said.

"I don't understand," Argus said. "Why a Cellar?"

"Gallione slang," Delita said. "Cellar's what we call a rat's nest."


	9. Chapter 8: The Cornered Rat

**Chapter 8: The Cornered Rat**

If you have to choose between the fire and the frying pan, which do you choose?

This was not the first time the question had crossed Gustav's mind. In some ways, he felt like it had been with him his entire life. It had certainly been with him when he'd first seen what soldiers might do, in the name of victory and vengeance. It had been with him when he'd seen what the powerful might do, to line their pockets. It was with him now, as he stared down at the bloody Marquis Elmdor.

He looked around the dusty room. Once, the place had been lavish: crates still lined the stone walls, and broken desks rimmed the gaudy red carpet at the center of the room. His father had once brought Gustav to this trading outpost in its twilight years, looking for a rare kind of Ordallian seed that war had made exceptionally difficult to find. But trade in the Zeklaus Desert was a risky proposition at the best of times, and the 50 Years' War had driven the place to ruin.

It had always lingered in Gustav's mind, however. Its isolation. The clear view it provided of the surrounding dunes and scrub grass. A good base of operations, for rebels looking to make a stand against terrible powers.

An even better place, for bandits and thieves to hide.

After all, that was what he'd become, wasn't it? Gustav Margueriff, once a rising star among the Hokuten. Gustav Margueriff, Wiegraf's right hand. Gustav Margueriff, kidnapper and murderer of young men who were little more than children.

He kicked the bound Marquis, who groaned and folded into a fetal position as much as his tied hands would allow. Crusted blood soaked his long silver-blonde hair, and his once-fine clothes of red and black had been shredded by harsh treatment.

"You fuckin' nobles," Gustav whispered, as though his sins could be laid at the Marquis' feet.

No better than the Hokuten, was he? He remembered the captured Ordallians still. One captured knight. One squire. One woman-at-arms, an Ordallian commoner recruited to serve in the masses of soldiers needed to fight a war that had lasted five decades. The knight had earned a tent and good food, while they arranged his ransom. The squire and the soldier?

Ivalice and Ordallia had been at war for a long time. And the Hokuten weren't going to let live scapegoats go to waste.

He remembered that night. The tents stretching out for miles in every direction, just north of the Germinas Mountains with a thick blanket of stars above, fires flickering here and there. He remembered how impassive and terrible such a beautiful night seemed, when he knew what was happening beneath it.

He remembered the screams, the scratching of a bedroll against the dirt and the thick slap of flesh against flesh. He remembered the cracks of bone. He remembered that there came a time when he couldn't tell the difference between their screams and cries and whimpers anymore. When it was just a duet of human misery, never quite masked by the jeers and sadistic derision of the soldiers.

He remembered walking away, and hating himself for it.

He'd listened as long as he could. He sat in his tent with his fists clenched and his sword in his hand and imagined himself bursting in as a hero. Were these not human beings, just the same as the men and women of Ivalice? Were these not the same as your sons and daughters, brothers and sisters? How could you do this? How...

How could you just sit there, and let them?

And he had walked away, until he couldn't hear the screams. As though by not hearing them, they had never happened. As though by not hearing them, he was absolved of letting them...

He had walked into the captured knight's tent, unchallenged. The knight had looked up at him with surprise and interest.

"How can you let them do this?" Gustav had asked, in a low whisper.

The knight's heavy face fell. "What choice do I have?" he asked, in that lilting Ordallian accent. "Should I fight alone against an army? Should I risk my life for the sake of...?" He trailed off, his face darkening. He stared into Gustav's eyes. "How can you?"

For the same reason, of course. Because Gustav had never wanted to be a farmer's son, searching for rare Ordallian seeds in the vain hope it might give him some edge over the neighbors to the east. Because Gustav dreamed of glory, and tried his luck, and in the chaos of the 50 Years' War he had a better chance than most to show his skills. He had a knack for logistics. For managing supplies and breaking enemy lines and capturing enemy intelligence. It was his own planning that had led to the capture of the knight, once his squad had been slaughtered.

It was Gustav's own planning that had led to the screams of the squire and the soldier.

What matter dreams of glory, when they led to such ruin? But then, what was the choice? Was it all scrabbling in the dirt of breaking innocent men and women? What was the alternative, between the hellfire of guilt and the frying pan of pointless toil?

He tried to ease his conscience. Tried to report it to some higher-up, some commander or noble who might listen. At best, he got grudging sympathy and musings about the brutal necessities of war. At worst, he was lambasted as a traitor, a man who sympathized with the loathsome Ordallians.

No hope from above. No hope anywhere. No choice at all.

The answer to his dilemma came to him by luck, because he was part of a Hokuten detachment reinforcing the Limberry battle lines. But they were not the only unit of Gallione to join the fray. There was another, widely considered a joke by the Hokuten and their noble commanders. "Commoners playing at war!" one man had called them, laughing over his beer.

When Gustav saw them, however, they didn't seem like such a joke. The Corpse Brigade was a unit of commoners gathered from all across Gallione, carefully trained and disciplined. An Ordallian cavalry unit could not outflank them. Ordallian mages could not scare them into retreat or break their ranks. They faced their foe with a courage and idealism that had long since been lost among the other martial orders of Ivalice. They treated their captives, noble and commoner alike, with distinction.

So Gustav went in search of their commander. He went in search of Wiegraf Folles.

The man was easy to find. He and his sister might have been the commanders and recruiters of this grand company, but they did not stand on ceremony. He found them in a tent no larger than any other, drinking and laughing among a host of common soldiers and a handful of their commanding officers. They did not have the rigorous uniformity of the Hokuten: they were a ramshackle army, cobbling supplies together with whatever Ivalice could grudgingly spare them. But each man and woman wore the green cloak. Each man and woman wore the skull emblem.

"Did you lose your way, friend?" Wiegraf asked, smiling at him.

"No," Gustav said.

"No?" Wiegraf repeated, glancing wryly at his sister Miluda. "Look at this. A Hokuten comes among us willingly."

"Brave of him," Miluda said. "He should know how dirty we commoners are."

Gustav sat down without being invited. Wiegraf wordlessly handed him some of the roasted chocobo. Gustav had never cared for the taste of the bird—far too gamy—but beggars couldn't be choosers, and he ate willingly. He was surprised by how good it was: someone had seasoned it expertly, and it drifted with a slightly-sweet sauce that was a nice counterpoint to the lean mean\t.

"This is delicious," Gustav said, inhaling deeply of the smoky scent.

"His doing," Miluda said, jerking her head towards her brother. "He was always the feminine one.

Wiegraf grinned. "I learned the recipe from our mother," he said. "Our parents were innkeeps, and they had to feed their guest something."

"Were?" Gustav asked.

Wiegraf and Miluda stiffened. "Were," repeated Wiegraf.

"I'm sorry," Gustav said.

Wiegraf shrugged. "We've all lost something in this damn war. No one gets off scot-free. And we've all got to bear the burden."

"But why?" Gustav asked. He knew that the derision he'd seen among the Hokuten he'd come to hate was just the tip of the iceberg. There were commoners in every part of the army—how could you have an army without them? But few and far between were the men who were allowed to rise above their station. Gustav had once been proud to be among that few. Now...

Now he wondered if it was the worth the price of his soul.

"Is this an academic question?" Wiegraf asked.

"No," Gustav replied.

"We're Ivalicians," Miluda said, as though that were explanation enough.

"So?" Gustav asked.

"So," Wiegraf continued. "So we're of Ivalice. Just like Balbanes Beoulve, or Cid Orlandeau. Just like Duke Barinten or Prince Larg. Hell, just like the king." He leaned forwards, and there was silence at the table, everyone watching Wiegraf with rapt attention. "We've all lost something in this damn war," Wiegraf said. "But we stand to gain something too. Most nobles are people, just like you and me. Show them what we can do. What we _will_ do, for our country. Show them that we deserve their respect. That among us is some of the best that Ivalice can offer."

Gustav was silent. His head was full of remembered screams.

"Why are you eating chocobo?" he asked.

"Trouble getting supplies," Miluda said. "And there were enough dead Ordallian birds to feed us for the night."

"I think we can do better than that," Gustav said.

"Can we?" Wiegraf asked, eyebrows arching.

"If you'll let me."

It was a minor scandal when Gustav turned in his blue cloak with its White Lion. Few and far between were the men who rose above their station, only to step down of their own volition. The officer in charge cursed him out, in fact. Called him nothing short of a traitor, an anarchist, an Ordallian sympathizer, and some more generic epithets besides.

But Gustav had seen it. The path to equality and power that did not lead through the blood-soaked mire of screaming innocents. He did not want to sell his soul.

As his first act as a member of the Corpse Brigade, he convinced Wiegraf to give him command of a hundred men, and used those men to rescue a Zeltennian viscount in a precarious position. In gratitude, the viscount gave them money and supplies.

That was how he proved his worth. He had kept his contacts in the Hokuten supply chain, and for all his hatred of the farmer's life he still knew that world well. He knew just who to flatter, pester, aggravate, and intimidate among the Hokuten staff to get them the support they needed. When that fell short of their needs, he would go directly to the farmers of Limberry, cajoling, inspiring, bribing. Reminding them that all the men and women of Ivalice must share the burden, to prove what the common people were capable of.

Within a month of his joining, the Brigade was better armed and better fed than it had ever been.

"You're something else, Gustav," Wiegraf said, as the two of them and Miluda drank the last of the wine the grateful viscount had sent their way.

"I'm not," Gustav said. "Just a farmer's son."

"And I'm just an innkeep's daughter," Miluda said.

"We're not _just_ anything," Wiegraf grunted. "We're all human. We all end the same way."

"As corpses?" Gustav asked.

" _Exactly_." Wiegraf leaned forwards, bracing his jaw against his interlocked fingers. "That's all we are. Dead men living out our short time. So I gathered up a brigade of dead men, to remind everyone in Ivalice what even walking corpses can do."

"And you?" Gustav asked, glancing at Miluda.

Miluda shrugged. "My mother used to tell me stories," she said. "Before the Glabados Church and Ajora, the Ydorans worshiped many gods. One of them had a small army of female attendants, who stalked the battlefields of the world and found him fallen heroes." She allowed herself a rare smile. "I figured my Valkyries could send him some Ordallian heroes a little early."

They drank together until night turned to dawn.

The serenity of that night did not last long. The war was not going well. Even with the Romandans to the north out of the fight, the Ordallians were unrelenting. They all knew that Ivalice could not long hold. Money and supplies grew ever shorter. It was all Gustav could do to make sure anyone got fed. And rumor was that Balbanes Beoulve had caught the plague.

"We can't prove our worth to Ivalice if there's no Ivalice left," Wiegraf said.

"And we can't ask soldiers to fight if they're not even getting paid!" Gustav said.

"No one makes it out of this war unscathed," Wiegraf said. "We all have to bear the burden."

"Tell your men that," Gustav said.

"I will."

And he did. And wonder upon wonders, it worked. Gustav had never understood how that was possible. He knew that he did not have what Wiegraf had. He could not compel that level of fervor or adulation. The men under Wiegraf's command believed in him. They listened to him.

Hell, so did Gustav. Like the rest, he agreed. They asked the crown to suspend their pay, until such time as the war was won. In gratitude, the crown gave them extra weapons and supplies.

There was a war to win, after all. And Gustav intended to win it. He intended to see Wiegraf's Ivalice, whatever the cost.

Miluda and Wiegraf linked up with the Hokuten and the forces of Limberry. There were soldiers and warriors, well-suited to the work. But Gustav knew his strengths. He could not build Wiegraf's Ivalice frm the front lines.

He left his most capable lieutenants in charge of their supplies and took a group of handpicked men into the lands east of Limberry, occupied by Ordallia for several years. But there were still men and women here who chafed beneath Ordallian boots. The crops from friendly farmers mysteriously "disappeared" before the Ordallians could commandeer them for their own use. Convoys across the region were hit before they could reach the front lines. Army units preparing to sally forth found themselves short the barrels of beer they'd been hoping for, the quivers of arrows or fresh food, the swords they desperately needed. Individually, none of these things was so significant, but the cumulative effect was terrific. The Ordallian war machine felt suddenly fragile to every common soldier.

And if Gustav needed to dirty his hands a little? If a merchant had his throat slit because the prospect of the reward for selling out the culprits to these deeds was too compelling, and died gurgling at Gustav's feet? If a farmer tried to alert local patrols to their presence, and found his lands scorched and ruined? There were brutal necessities to war, after all. Gustav did not have to like them to see they were essential.

The signing of the peace accord should have been a triumph. Gustav and his band, much smaller than they'd once been, returned to Limberry, exhausted but exalted. They had played their part in the end of the war. They had made fighting Ivalice unsustainable. And he knew that the Brigade elsewhere had done just as well. Had shown themselves the equal of any of the knightly orders.

But there was too much pain in Ivalice, too much grief. Too many dead, from war and from the Choking Plague. Food shortages were endemic, with so many men and women called to fight. Money was short everywhere. He remembered those days now, staring down at the beaten Marquis. In his mind, even the brightest day was somehow overcast, greyed out. That was how all Ivalice had felt. Like the pall of the smoke of a great fire still hung heavy over them.

There was nowhere for Gustav to go. His father wouldn't see him, and Gustav would not have returned to that farm, even if he would. So he traveled with Wiegraf and Miluda, as they returned to Gallione, older and wearier than they'd been when they left.

"It's all fucked up," Gustav said, after the grey days had worn on him too much. They had returned to the Folles' long-abandoned inn, but the fact that it still had beds made it a damn sight better than most of the places Gustav had bedded down the last few months.

"50 years of war," Miluda said, handing him a glass and sinking down into the bed next to him. "What do you expect?"

"It's over, though," Gustav said.

"Is it?" Miluda asked, staring into his eyes. And his head was full of what he'd heard and seen. He remembered his eyes watering as he'd set a torch to the fields. His head was full of the squire and the soldier, screaming.

"We all have to bear the burden," Miluda said, in a passable imitation of Wiegraf's deep, strident voice. The corners of Gustav's mouth twitched.

"We did good," Miluda said. "All of us. That doesn't mean it's gonna be easy." Her fingers slipped beneath his hair, fingertips traced along his scalp. Gustav slowly leaned into the crook of her neck, breathing in the deep, earthy, sweaty scent of her.

"Is it ever?" he whispered, as they sank back against the headboard.

It never was. He knew that after the celebration at Igros, where the Crown had honored them with accolades for their service, praised them as heroes and formally discharged them with the promise that their service would never be forgotten.

It was only months later that they found out that they would also never be paid.

It was transmitted by royal decree: that the volunteer units who'd served their kingdom would have to be content with the little glow of warmth and pride they'd earned as their bellies, and the bellies of their families and friends, went empty.

And what could Gustav do? Gustav, who had alienated every Hokuten ally in his fervent faith and service to the Brigade's cause? Gustav, who had alienated his father and his friends in his hatred for the life of the farmer? Gustav, who felt like a ghost in the house of Wiegraf and Miluda?

"Say something!" Gustav demanded, slamming his hands down on the table between them.

Wiegraf sat at a table by the fireplace, his face gloomy, his fists clenched in front of him. "What is there to say?" he asked.

"We need a plan," Miluda said.

"What plan!" Wiegraf shouted. "We fought for Ivalice. What would you have me to do now? Turn my sword against it?"

"Never," Miluda said. "But what's Ivalice?"

Wiegraf stared up at her, the fire flickering behind him. Gustav stared at her, too.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"What's Ivalice?" she asked again. "It is the Crown? Is it the nobles who force us to fight their wars and think they can get away without paying us? Or is it the people, Graffy? The people who are suffering because these bastards think they can always get away with it?"

"And they can't," Gustav hissed. "They can't."

Wiegraf considered them both. "We must all share the burden," he said. "If they refuse to share it, then we must make them."

That was how it began. It wasn't hard. The whole Brigade was suffering, but the whole Brigade was seething, too. They had all known a taste of glory, of battles decided by their strength and will. More than that, they had known that their strength and will were great enough to change the course of history. When Wiegraf put out the word, they came. In ones and twos, in squads and packs, they left their homes with all they could carry, and marched north. To the frozen fortresses on the border of the Rhana Strait, which Gallione and Fovoham had abandoned just as surely as they'd abandoned the Brigade.

"Nobleman led us into this war!" Wiegraf roared, his voice carrying in the chill air, the black sunken bulk of Fort Zeakden rising high into the gray skies behind him. The Brigade stood in neat lines before him, with all the weapons they'd kept and stolen. "Nobleman fought their proxy battles, the brothers and cousins and sons of kings vied for power and they could. Not. End it."

"And when all Ivalice suffered!" he howled. "When plague took our loved ones as surely as Ordallian blades, when Limberry sat at the very edge of defeat, who saved them!"

"WE DID!" came the roar from the crowd, so fierce it shook the boards beneath Gustav's feet.

"They called to us in their hour of need with false promises on their lips," Wiegraf growled. "They praised us and would not honor us. They would have us be their tools. They think we will be ruled like sheep. Well I say, if this is how our rulers behave, then we will make new rulers!"

A howl of wordless affirmation, like wolves baying for blood.

"We were a brigade of dead men, spending our lives as best we could," Wiegraf said. "Now we are assembled once more, but I do not see dead men. I see men who will bring death to those who spit on their responsibilities and obligations. I see a whole god damn corps of men who know how to swing their blades. We are the Death Corps, and we will cut out the rotten nobles of Ivalice!"

The crowd descended into screams of bloodthirsty affirmation.

"But!" Wiegraf cried, as the crowd slowly dwindled into silence. "But we must not become them. We are not assembled here for vengeance. For too long, we have seen those who claim to be our betters force us to do sacrifice where they will not. We will be better than that. We are a Corps. We are discipline incarnate. We will hurt the nobles who betray us and those like us. We will protect the people, whatever the cost to ourselves. We will be the very instrument of justice. We will build a kingdom of the like even Saint Ajora would call a Paradise upon the earth!"

And the screams this time were triumph incarnate.

"We can base most of our soldiers and supplies here," Wiegraf said later that night, studying the map of Ivalice in the fort's war room and drawing a line along the Rhana Strait, dotted with the abandoned forts they'd already occupied. "They'd have to send an army to get rid of us, and they don't have the strength for that, right?"

"Right," Gustav affirmed. "But it's going to be hard to get supplies."

"We'll hit them two ways," Wiegraf said. "Barinten won't send his soldiers out of Riovanes, so we can hit some of the outlying farms in Fovoham. We also need units in Mandalia. We have to keep the pressure up in Gallione-"

"Leave that to me," Miluda said.

"The Valkyries won't be enough," Wiegraf said.

"Agree to disagree," Miluda said. "But I can tap a few captains with good squads."

Wiegraf nodded his approval.

"You want to open a two-front war?" Gustav asked, unable to hide the fear in his voice.

Wiegraf glanced at him. "Why not?"

"We don't have the resources," Gustav said. "The Hokuten might be exhausted, but they've got a government behind them. I know what it's like to fight something like that."

"I know you do," Wiegraf said. "That's why I'm sending you to Dorter."

Wiegraf and Gustav stared at each other. "What?" Gustav said.

"The Hokuten are weak," Wiegraf said. "If I keep the pressure up in the north and Miluda harasses them in the south, they'll have to capitulate or call for help. I'm sure his Highness Prince Larg-" and here Wiegraf sneered. "-can't bear the thought of yielding to the likes of us. He'll call for help. He'll call for supplies. And most of that will come to or from Dorter."

Pieces clicked together in Gustav's mind, as the old war machine began to tick again. He could gather information from all the corners of Ivalice. He could hurt the Hokuten while strengthening the Corps. And on territory he knew. On territory where there were men and women of Gallione, hurting just as he was, aching for justice.

Here was the path to righteousness he'd been looking for. To use the talents he'd developed during the war to take down the same men and women who abused those in their power.

He felt alive, like there was fire beneath his skin. He burned with something pure and righteous.

"I can do this," Gustav said.

"No other man could," Wiegraf agreed. "Pick the men you want. They're yours." Wiegraf clasped Gustav's hand. "We need you, Gustav."

Trusted. Honored. So Gustav picked his men, and they slipped away in the night. The wore the altered cloaks of the Death Corps: the skull emblem now wore a crown, to remind their noble foes that they could die, too.

For the first few months, it was exactly as Gustav had imagined. The people chafed beneath the harsh dictates of Prince Larg and the crown. The Corps offered them a hope they hadn't dreamed of, and supplies came in from all across Ivalice: clandestine shipments of food from Larg's political enemies, weapons from old veterans eager to see the noble fools who'd used them as cannon fooder laid low, gil from commoner merchants and peasants and anyone hoping to see justice in Gallione.

And Dorter? Dorter was a seething nest of a city where the only language readily understood was that of power and influence. It was the exact kind of city all of Gustav's experience had prepared him for. He flattered friendly merchants and appealed to their vanity and virtue. He intimidated and berated the indifferent souls who sat on the fence while the people of Ivalice suffered. And whatever merchants might have dreamed of opposing him found their supplies vanished beneath their noses, where they did not simply have their throats slit and their wealth taken from them as they looked on with desperate dying eyes.

That was how it started, if he was honest. When he killed a merchant who had taken advantage, sold secrets to noblemen in hopes of material gain. When the act was met with approval throughout Dorter. Because it was an easy way to guarantee supplies and make sure anyone sitting on the fence, unsure of the course of action, knew exactly what the Corps would do if they tried to help the nobles.

And as time went on, Gustav found that there was no one in Dorter who could oppose him.

All the old criminal syndicates went to ground. To face a hundred soldiers would have been asking much of them: to face a hundred soldiers commanded by a man who understood exactly what he was doing? Who knew how to leverage those soldiers so you felt the boot on your collective necks? He had been made for this, he had trained for this. He was good at it.

For months, Gustav watched Dorter from his rat cellar north of Dorter, and took freely from Hokuten supply chains, and became the bread basket of the Corps. For months, he poured food, and weapons, and gil, and any supplies he could lay hands on north and south, and made sure that Wiegraf and Miluda had everything they needed to build their Ivalice.

And when money got tight? When Wiegraf and Miluda needed money and weapons, and there were none to give them? He found other merchants. He found the indifferent men who'd chosen no sides and hoped they would escape the conflict unscathed. He did not earn the popular accolades he'd gained from targeting of the noblemen and their cronies, but nor did he earn the ire of Dorter. Perhaps that was part of the problem. Perhaps the indifference was something Gustav should never have known about.

Because once he knew, it was hard to forget. Especially when he saw that the Death Corps was doomed.

He tried to pretend that he didn't know. He kept stealing weapons, food, gil, and intel. He was the vanguard of the corps, gathering all the information they needed to stay alive. And he tried to ignore the larger import of the intel he gathered. He tried to ignore the certainty of the Death Corps' defeat.

But he couldn't do it. He had spent too long learning to accurately assess the logistics of armies. It was all the experience he had. The fight between the Corps and the Hokuten was not like the fight between Ivalice and Ordallia. The latter was a case of two vast nations pitting their full weight against one another. Even with the Hokuten weakened by the 50 Years' War, they were as strong as the Corpse Brigade had ever been. Not were they alone. The Nanten might have disdained them: Khamja might hide away. But Larg's sister was the Queen of all Ivalice, and Dycedarg Beoulve was one of the cagiest diplomats in all the land. The best-case scenario saw the Corps suing for favorable terms, but the best-case scenario also imagined that nobles would ever deign to parley with commoners.

And why would they, when they were winning?

Even without reinforcements, even with Gustav raiding their supply lines, the Hokuten could afford to fight far better than they could. If every man and woman of the Corps killed two Hokuten, they might still lose. And rare indeed is the man who can make his life so costly. Hell, the Corps couldn't even afford to face the Hokuten in the open. The Valkyries raided, and Wiegraf hunted any patrols that made their way to him, and it was not enough. It couldn't be enough.

The hope had always been to inspire the people. To take on recruits, and inspire a movement that would shake Ivalice. And to be sure, there were men and women who flocked to their banner, at first. Gave freely from their coffers and pockets, to make sure they could fight. But untested boys and girls did not make for effective soldiers, and as the months dragged on and they were hunted and hounded and cold and hungry, more and more were leaving. Miluda's forces were stretched thin, and many of their veteran units had been depleted in the north and the south by constant conflict.

What hope, as the cause of rebellion lost its luster, and the noose tightened around their necks?

Gustav knew it. He could see it. He took more and more from the merchants. He turned on the people of Dorter before they could turn on him. He made examples of troublesome merchants, striking at them in their homes when they thought they were safe, raiding their most valuable cargo. He was as bad as any syndicate, and he knew it, too. Because Wiegraf had offered him what looked like hope, and now Gustav knew that hope was poisoned, and once again he was caught and didn't know how to escape.

Until Dycedarg Beoulve, cagiest diplomat in all Ivalice, had approached him.

Now he held the Marquis Elmdor, ruler of the land where the Brigade had been tested and forged. That was before, of course. Before Elmdor had come to Gallione to discuss reinforcing the Hokuten. Before Gustav had taken him, and killed six boys whose only crime was that they still believed in noble ideals, and wished to see Gustav pay for the horrors he'd caused.

 _I didn't kill them!_

 _No. You just ordered them killed._

 _What choice do I have? Should I fight alone against an army? Should I risk my life for the sake of...?_

There was a thunderous explosion from above. The cellar shook, dust raining down from the corners, and shouts of alarm rose into the air. The Marquis groaned on the floor, and Gustav turned to the door, reaching for his sword.

The door burst open. The body of one of his men fell through on it, and Miluda pulled her blade from his chest. His heart froze in his chest

"Miluda-" he started, and then she was lunging towards him, and he could barely block her cutting blade.

"You would kill me?" he shrieked, over the clanging of the metal.

"After what you've done?" she whispered. "Yes."

He forced her back, and there was another thunderous explosion from above, more screams and cries. Miluda drove him back, and a moment later Wiegraf descended the staircase, his sword shining.

"Why, Gustav?" he asked, his eyes heavy.

Fire and the frying pan. Do you scrabble in the dirt, knowing your soul will break long before you back does? Or do you use your talents for men who torture and hurt?

Fire and the frying pan. Do you believe in the cause of Ivalice, and forego pay? Or do you insist on your gil, knowing how thinly stretched the whole kingdom is?

Fire and the frying pan. Do you accept the ultimate insult from the crown and country you sacrificed so much for? Or do you try to oppose the very crown and country for which you sacrificed so much?

Fire and frying pan. When Dycedarg Beoulve offers you a pardon in exchange for the assassination of the Marquis, do you compromise everything you are? Do you trust a man who would so easily betray his supposed ally? Do you seize the opportunity in the hopes of buying your way free, whatever the cost to the men and women around you?

"What choice was there?" Gustav asked.

"Every choice," Wiegraf said.

"No choice," Gustav said.

Never a choice. From birth until death.


	10. Chapter 9: Foes By Birth

**Chapter 9: Foes By Birth**

 _...traders and entrepreneurs have ever been interested in the borderlands to the Zeklaus Desert. The south offers a chance for a faster trade, bypassing the nightmare of Dorter's roads if only someone can forge outposts along its small oases, and those willing to brave the baking heat of the sand dunes in a crossing to the north can find some of the most fertile land in all Ivalice, fed by the occasional lava flow from the volcano at the heart of the Bervenia mountains. But tough times leave little room for such endeavors: the 50 Years' War put an end to many of these outposts..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War_

They heard the explosion just after daybreak.

They had left the inn at once, riding through the night, leaving behind the damp of Dorter and trotting into the low, dry cool of a desert at night. Argus had wanted to push the birds to their limit, and it had taken a great deal of effort to keep him in their pack of four. The Hokuten war mounts were sturdy birds that ran swift and true, but they could only take so much. Still, Ramza could hardly blame Argus for his haste. The Marquis was suddenly, unexpectedly in reach.

Was that why he'd hurt Ivan so badly?

The image haunted him. Argus pounding his bloody fists into the screaming boy, who'd already lost so much. Delita, standing impassively behind him. Was this the face of heroism? Was this what was required in the pursuit of Justice? In the name of Service?

But it had worked, hadn't it? Not by itself, but the three of them together. The pain, the threats, the indifference, and...

And whatever it was Ramza had done, that had made Ivan give up the location.

He wished the man well. He'd gotten in over his head, and tried to do what was right, and his friend had died in the course and...

Ah, God, but it was hard to be righteous.

They rode through the night, their eyes heavy, their bodies weary, their eyes fixed forward. Slowly, the sun rose in the east, and cast embers of dim golden fire across the dusty landscape, painted the warm dunes held together with scrub grass. Ramza kept his eyes open for any of the telltale landmarks Ivan had described to him: the way the dunes and hills would cluster together, to form almost a wall from which any guards could see you coming. Nestled within those hills was the outpost that now served as Gustav's headquarters.

Nestled in those hills would be the Marquis.

Thunder on the clear horizon—the same thunder they'd heard yesterday, when they'd found the hovel broken open. And in the distance, a rising plume of smoke, from behind a line of hills.

"Damn!" Argus shouted, and urged his bird on to a fast sprint. Ramza and the others exchanged panicked glances, and urged their birds onwards, just as quick. Ramza's head was filled with the image of those two deadly souls, the leaders of the Death Corps. And his ears were filled with the voice of a man who had spoken earnestly about the cause of justice.

They rode, as the sun baked down on them, and the birds sweated and stank in their exertion, and thunder sounded through a cloudless day.

They charged up the hill and spilled out onto the outpost—a low-slung building of wood, stone, and brick, almost fort-like in its construction. There had been sentries, but most of these appeared to be dead: male and female bodies scattered about a massive hole blasted into the side of the building. Delita looked thoughtfully and what seemed to be the doors, but Argus was already charging for the blast site.

"Argus!" Delita shouted, before he made it too far down the hill. "Back!"

Argus turned a dismissive glare back at Delita, but Delita gestured down at their mounts and said, "We don't want to lose the birds. You want to get the Marquis fast, right?"

"I-" Argus broke off. "Yes. You're right."

They dismounted, and led their birds back a little ways. Delita pulled out one of the posts and plunged it into the earth as best he could, and the four men hastily tied their birds.

"Should we leave a guard?" Ramza asked, finishing a knot.

"I'd like to," Delita said. "But I think we need all four of us."

He looked to the other three men, who nodded their assent. Then he gestured, and they surged forwards, heading for the blast site again. Ramza's leather armor pulled tight against his joints, and his oiled chainmail rattled o his chest. Everything felt very dreamy and very real, all at once. Like he was walking through a nightmare from which he could not awaken.

They entered into a hallway strewn with rubble and corpses, and might have been lost if they could not hear the sounds of fighting down a nearby staircase. Desperate shouts and the clanging of metal on metal filled the air, and Ramza drew his blade (remembering again the fight in the plains, and the spray of blood against his face). Together, the four men made their way down to the sound of the fight.

By the time they got there, it was already over.

They stepped out of a stairwell to find Wiegraf and Miluda, standing with bloody blades above a corpse. Argus made to fire an arrow, but the movement gave him away: Miluda rolled to one side, grabbed a piece of rubble, and hurled it at Argus in one fluid motion. The piece of brick struck him in the shoulder, and Argus fell backwards, releasing his arrow so it flew far overhead.

Beowulf hurled himself forwards, but it was Miluda who rose to meet them and suddenly there was no sign of Wiegraf and Ramza wasn't sure where he could have gotten to. Miluda and Beowulf were a flurry of dancing steel, but Beowulf was being driven back, step by step. Delita and Ramza rushed forwards to support him.

And found that somehow they were still outmatched.

This was _not_ the clumsy desperation of the man Ramza had fought on the Plains. She actually reminded him of his sparring matches against Delita back at the academy: that same economy of force, quietly but persistently targeting his weaknesses, forming an impassive wall of steel to any counter he attempted. But she was better than Delita: sharper, faster, deadlier. Though it was just her blade against their four, they were the ones being driven back. It was just so damn _fast_ : no sooner had Ramza and Delita joined the fray then Beowulf was knocked backwards by a shoulder slammed into his solar plexus, and Miluda was spinning and dancing between them, keeping them off balance, her sharp sword tip darting like a needle, and Ramza could almost taste the death that hung on its sharp edge.

There was no time for thoughts of justice. There was only the aching of his arms with every impact, and the whistling of blades.

She struck with terrible force, and the blade fell from Ramza's numb fingers. Delita rushed to defend him, but fell back before a series of darting thrusts. She whirled on Ramza, scything her blade from side to side, and Ramza ducked and wove between each blow. He stumbled over some debris, lurched backwards to dodge her blade, hurled a handful of dust and pebbles up towards her face. She staggered away, narrowly deflecting Delita and Beowulf's charge.

"Enough!" boomed Wiegraf's deep, commanding voice. Ramza reflexively glanced towards him, then stopped dead. In time of war, the Marquis Elmdore had been known as the Silver Demon by allies and enemies alike, as a laughing reference to his fabled spirituality and an admonition of his terrible prowess on the battlefield. Even though Ramza had never met the man before, he could recognize the tell-tale silver-blonde hair. He could tell it was the Marquis that had Wiegraf's sword pressed against throat.

They froze, Miluda several feet from them with her sword sweeping slowly between all three of them.

"Move," Argus growled from the door. "And your sister dies." Ramza glanced over his shoulder: Argus had his arrow trained firmly on Miluda.

"And your Marquis will still be dead," Wiegraf said. "After all you've been through to save him, I think that'd be a shame."

"He's dead either way," Argus said. "I know your kind."

"You know _nothing_ ," spat Miluda.

"She's right," Wiegraf said. "The Brigade fought alongside the Marquis. He always treated us with respect. It's not his fault he's of noble blood."

"And yet you hold your sword to his neck," hissed Argus.

"Argus," Delita said warningly. He was breathing slow and steady, in that relaxed pose of poised danger Ramza had seen so often at the Academy. He was studying Wiegraf. "Why should we trust you?"

"The man responsible for your troubles lies dead," Wiegraf said, nodding towards the corpse on the floor a little ways behind Miluda. "I would not taint my cause by copying his methods."

"Taint your commoners' cause," sneered Argus.

"Taint my cause," Wiegraf continued. "The Marquis' abduction was an act of cowardice, just like these attacks on merchant convoys. When we taint ourselves with the blood of innocent men, we make ourselves like the bastards who claim nobility."

"You dare-!" Argus shouted.

"I dare," Wiegraf said. "Gustav is dead. Dealt with by the hands of the Corps." He paused, then looked around the room. "What became of Ivan?"

"He's alive," Ramza said. "I let him go."

"And we should just believe you?" Miluda whispered.

"You should," Ramza said. "He gave us this place, so we could stop Gustav if you couldn't."

"Hmmph!" Wiegraf grunted. "The boy's more idealistic than I am."

"I wouldn't go that far," Miluda said.

Wiegraf stared at Ramza. Ramza stared back at Wiegraf. Facing him on was a different experience. His eyes were serious, his face set, and his sword hand didn't shake. He looked nothing like Balbanes Beoulve, except that he wore the same cool, confident expression.

"You want the Marquis?" Wiegraf asked. "He's yours. Provided you let us go."

"What!" Argus roared.

"Graffy!" Miluda snapped. "We can take these children!"

"You can try!" Beowulf yelled.

"Perhaps," Wiegraf said. "Though I'm not sure what's to be gained by killing children whose only crime is service to a cause they think righteous."

Miluda looked chastened, and Wiegraf continued, "Besides, even if we could, I doubt they'll be alone for long. The whole damn country's looking for the Marquis, and we haven't exactly been quiet."

He jerked his head back to the patch of wall next to him, and Miluda moved slowly to his side, glancing between the three men. With their backs to the wall, they began to circle towards the entrance.

"Get your friend away from the door," Wiegraf said, looking at Delita.

"I'm not going anywhere until the Marquis is safe," Argus said.

"If you want the Marquis safe, you'll move," Wiegraf said conversationally. "If you want the Marquis dead, you'll stay."

Ramza glanced towards Argus, not quite daring to speak. Argus' face was contorted in the same hateful snarl Ramza had first seen at the bar. He still had an arrow nocked to his bow. There was a brief, tense silence, and then Argus slowly stepped away from the entrance, circling around to the opposite wall.

"We're not gonna fight?" Beowulf asked, disappointed.

"You should be glad, boy," Wiegraf said. "I really don't want to kill you."

"I can't say the same," Beowulf said.

"You want to kill yourself?"

"That's not what I-hey!" Beowulf glared at Wiegraf.

"Funny," Delita said.

"Thanks," Wiegraf replied.

"You're _joking_ with them!" Argus shouted, outraged.

"Sure," Delita said. "Long as they give us the Marquis. If they don't, we'll kill them."

"Confident, aren't you?" Miluda sneered. "You couldn't defeat me by yourselves. You think you can take the two of us?"

"Gustav," Ramza said, cutting through the noise. "He was your ally."

Wiegraf and Miluda stopped their slow inching. Miluda looked down at the ground: Wiegraf's blue eyes bored back into Ramza's.

"He was my friend," Wiegraf said.

"You killed him."

" _We_ killed him," Miluda said softly.

"He deserved to die." Wiegraf's eyes closed briefly, then snapped back open, blazing with force. Ramza swallowed against the sudden dryness in his throat. "We deliver justice to those who think themselves beyond it's reach. Be they strong or weak. Be they friend or foe."

"Big words for a coward," Argus said.

"Call me what you will," Wiegraf said.

"That's what you want?" Ramza asked. "Justice?"

The fire in Wiegraf's eyes dimmed a little. He nodded, studying Ramza with obvious interest.

"Then don't go," Ramza said. "Come with us to Igros."

"Who are you to make such an offer, boy?" Miluda laughed, though there was little humor in the sound.

"Ramza Beoulve," Ramza said.

"Ramza!" Delita hissed.

Wiegraf and Miluda were staring at him in shock. Ramza extended his empty hands forwards, thinking of Ivan Mansel on the floor, thinking of the dead man's blood upon his face. Thinking of Balbanes' last words.

"Well," Wiegraf said. "You certainly live up to your name, don't you?"

They started inching to the door again. There was a slight smile on Wiegraf's face. "You've got a big heart, boy," Wiegraf said. "But you don't know the world that well, if you think the Crown would ever forgive us. If you think your brothers would ever forgive us."

"They would!" Ramza shouted, taking another step forwards as they neared the door. "We don't have to be enemies!"

Wiegraf sighed, and Miluda laughed that same cold laugh. "Boy," she said. "We were foes from birth."

Wiegraf shoved the Marquis to one side. Argus cried out, and loosed an arrow, but it was lost as Wiegraf swung his sword in a glowing arc. The world faded behind an explosion of crackling light and white-hot force, as thunder filled the air and turned all sound to a distant whine. Argus was thrown backwards: Ramza, Delita, and Beowulf staggered. The blast faded, and Ramza rushed forwards. Argus was already crawling forwards, eyes squinted as he coughed. His hands found the Marquis' shoulders, and he pulled the man into his lap, his fingers on his neck.

"Alive!" he croaked, though his voice was strangely muffled to Ramza's ears. "He's alive!"

Ramza nodded and stumbled past him, into the thick cloud of dust. He coughed once or twice as it became too much to bear, his nose filled with the acrid burning of old dirt and earth. The staircase had been destroyed.

He stared up after them, his mouth dry, his eyes watering, his head full of Wiegraf's righteous fire and kind, calm certainty that there could be no hope for peace and justice in the arms of the Beoulves. That they were foes by birth.

"Ramza," Delita said. Ramza glanced over his shoulder to find his friend watching him. "You okay?"

Ramza shook his head. Delita nodded, and gestured back at the Marquis. "We did it," he said, and his voice sounded as hollow as Ramza felt.


	11. Chapter 10: The Righteous Path

**Chapter 10: The Righteous Path**

 _...but the Queen's reign would not have been secure without the support of her brother, Prince Bestrald Larg. The Larg family traditionally ran Gallione and enjoyed the loyalty of the Hokuten, and in the chaos of the 50 Years' War Prince Ondoria solidified his claim to the throne of Ivalice by marrying Baroness Louveria. Thus did Baron Larg earn the title 'Prince'..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

"So," Dycedarg said, peering at them over his laced fingers with his elbows propped upon his desk. The four young men stood at stiff, nervous attention in a line that stretched across the office, not looking at each other. "The deserters return. Execution is standard practice, of course, but I think we can at least wait for an explanation."

Still no response from Ramza or his friends, but Ramza felt a sick, guilty cloud of nausea rising from the pit of his stomach.

The last few days had passed by in a whirl. The Hokuten were already out in force, searching for some sign of the Marquis. It had not taken long for Ramza and his friends to find one such search party, and from there they had at once raced for Igros in a thick convoy of mounted soldiers. And once again, they were brought before Dycedarg to give an account for themselves while the healers tended to the Marquis.

"Allow me to retrace your steps," Dycedarg said, calm and deadly as an assassin's dagger. "You see, we called for cadets to reinforce the Igros garrison so that we could deploy the full strength of the Hokuten against the Corps. This is a rare honor for cadets, but I was proud to offer it, especially after your illustrious encounter with the Corps in the field. Instead, you decided to run off and play hero, abandoning your posts and your duties."

A little ripple that Ramza could see from the corners of his eyes, his friends flinching together.

"The men shirking their duties," Dycedarg said. "Include Ramza Beoulve, heir to the responsibility of the Beowulf name. Heir to the cause of Justice and Service. No less responsible for upholding these values is Delita Heiral, a ward of the Beoulve house who has been a credit to us, given his illustrious performance at the Gariland Military Academy. Of course, the son of the Academy's finest instructor is a deserter twice-over, having first abandoned his post at the Academy and now refused to return when granted undeserved leniency for his delinquency. And of course, a Thadolfas is with them."

The words dripped off Dycedarg's tongue, venomous.

"So please," Dycedarg concluded. "Which one of you was responsible for abandoning your post, convincing your friends to follow you, and involving yourself in a sensitive matter of the highest military and diplomatic important without any permission or authority granted you by the armies _you're supposed to serve?_ "

At once, Beowulf fell to one knee. "It's my fault, my lord," Beowulf said. "I didn't want to return to the Academy. I wanted an adventure."

"Is this true?" Dycedarg asked. "Did this junior cadet convince you to desert?"

"That would be ridiculous, Lord Dycedarg," Delita said, falling to one knee besides Beowulf. "It was I who convinced them. I wanted the glory of saving the Marquis, to do honor to the Beoulves and to my name."

"Don't be absurd," Ramza said, his voice quavering. He stepped forwards, and knelt in turn. "They would not have dared, but I...I wanted to be like you and Zalbaag, brother. Like father-"

"Ramza, no!" Argus said, falling to one knee next to him. "My lord, please, I was bent on going after the Marquis, and they would not desert me. I put them in an impossible-"

"Do you think this is funny?" Dycedarg asked, his words sharp as knives. "Do you think if you fall over each other to take the blame I will forget what you have done? You deserted your post, left the castle unguarded, fraternized with the enemy, and attempted to storm a Death Corps stronghold single-handed!"

"And in so doing," said a wry, rough voice. "They have saved the Marquis."

Dycedarg stood at once, his head bowed. "Your Highness," he whispered.

Ramza gaped at his brother, feeling hollow, then spun around on his knee, his head bowed. The others around him did the same in jerking, stumbling motions, and he could hear Prince Larg laughing. "Oh, rise!" he said. "This is no state for heroes."

Ramza lurched to his feet and stared at the Prince. Larg wore luxurious robes of blue, and his trim facial hair was the mirror of Dycedarg's. He leaned a little heavily on the cane in his left hand, and smiled at them, looking between each of them with bright green eyes. Lank brown hair fell just above his eyebrows.

"You give them too much credit," Dycedarg said.

"Do I?" Larg asked. "A Daravon, a Thadolfas, a Beoulve, and one of the Academy's brightest face off with Folles and rescue the Marquis Elmdor? Who could have done more?"

"It was idiotic," Dycedarg retorted.

"We were all young once," Larg said. "I wish we'd managed to do so much at their age."

"You're spoiling them," Dycedarg said.

"And why not?" Larg said. "I think they've earned it."

"Hmmph!" Dycedarg said nothing for a little while, and Ramza did not dare to take his eyes from Prince Larg. The Prince was smiling at him.

"Lucavi take me," Larg said. "You are the very image of your father. Something in the eyes, I think...the same zeal."

"Do Beoulves run from their duties?" Dycedarg asked sardonically.

"I think Beoulves do the impossible," Larg said. "That's why I collect them and put them in charge."

"Oh, fine!" exclaimed Dycedarg. "Fine." He stepped out from behind his desk and joined his liege lord. "Limberry is sending its forces to help us finish off the Corps," Dycedarg said. "As such, we have no particular need of a garrison here at Igros. If you so wish it, you may all take part in these operations against the Corps."

"Including me, my lord?" Beowulf asked, his voice unusually small and respectful.

"Including you," Dycedarg said.

"My lord!" Argus exclaimed, falling to one knee. "Thank you, but I...I need to know what the Marquis wishes of me."

"Hmmph!" Dycedarg grunted, with a slight smile. " _Now_ you listen to your superiors." Argus said nothing, and Dycedarg shrugged. "He's been treated by healers, and is resting in our father's old room. You're welcome to consult with him."

"Thank you, my lord," Argus said, rising to his feet. His eyes flickered to Prince Larg, though he didn't quite dare to look at him. "With...with your permission, your Highness."

Larg waved a hand airily, and Argus rushed from the room. "And I think you've all earned a bit of rest, hm?" Larg said.

"Yes, your Highness," Delita said, lowering his head.

"Thank you," Beowulf added, in a rasping whisper.

They made to leave the room, but Ramza remained where he was. Delita turned slightly, his eyes widening. "Ramza, no!" he hissed.

"Is something the matter, Ramza?" Larg asked.

"A private concern, your Highness," Ramza said, ignoring Delita's pleading eyes. "Permission to speak freely?"

Dycedarg's thin eyebrows arched, and he and the Prince exchanged sidelong glances.

"Pardon him, your Highness," Delita said, grabbing Ramza by the shoulder. "He's tired."

"That's as may be," Prince Larg said. "But I'd hear what he has to say. Speak, Ramza."

Ramza's throat felt very dry, and his muscles felt stringy and taut, as though they were about to snap. "It's about the Death Corps."

"Yes?" Larg asked.

Ramza swallowed, his head filled with Wiegraf and Miluda, with the notion that there could be no peace.

"Sir," he started. "The only reason Gustav is dead is because Wiegraf and Miluda put an end to him. They moved to correct an injustice."

"They moved to put down a dog who'd slipped his leash," grunted Dycedarg.

Ramza nodded shakily, and continued. "I...I understand that what they're doing is wrong. But surely...surely there's a better way end this war."

Larg cocked his head quizzically. "How do you mean, Ramza?"

Ramza took a deep breath, struggling to keep his voice level. "Could we not bring them to the table? Could we not make peace?"

Silence in the room. Delita's hand tightened on his shoulder. Dycedarg stared at him aghast, while Larg's face was impassive and unreadable.

"These are not Ordallians," Dycedarg whispered. "They are not a rival nation separated by history and sovereignty. These are traitors and rebels who are tearing our nation apart for the sake of greed. They raid our convoys and harm our people. We do not treat with them. We cannot. That would be an end to the power and authority of the crown."

His words were soft, but sudden and painful as a switch against Ramza's skin. He nodded, and felt his neck aching with the strain.

"That said," Larg added slowly. "Once we have expelled them from the south, it might be wise to discuss terms of surrender instead of frittering our forces away trying to purge them from their forts in the north. If they are willing to come to the table then...well, who knows?"

The strain vanished. Ramza stared in wonder at the Prince. "You're very kind, your Highness," he said.

"Kind nothing," Larg said, chuckling. "Just good sense."

"Thank you," Ramza said, bowing. He turned his head towards Dycedarg. "I'm...I'm sorry, brother."

Dycedarg sighed and shook his head. "Ramza," he said. "I do not mean to demean your accomplishments. But the duties and obligations of a Beoulve are complex. You have to understand that this all could have played out very differently. They could have killed the Marquis. They could have killed _you_."

"I know," Ramza said.

Dycedarg nodded, his eyes closed. "It's not easy, Ramza," he said. "Living up to our responsibilities...living up to our name..." He shook his head again. "I don't know how father did it, with the fate of the kingdom on his shoulders.

He looked very tired, and Ramza said, "I don't think I could do what you do, Dyce."

Dycedarg smiled a little. "Be careful, Ramza," Dycedarg said. "Still a cadet, and you've managed to save the Marquis of Limberry. You might have more responsibilities coming your way."

Ramza shook his head. "By the Saint, I hope not."

"A pity," Larg sighed. "I do need more Beoulves."

"You have enough," Dycedarg said.

"We'll see," Larg said. "You may go, Ramza."

Ramza and Delita left the room. Beowulf was already outside, hunched against a wall, his face very white.

"Beowulf?" Delita asked quizically, leaning down in front of him.

"A Prince knows my name," Beowulf whispered. "A _Prince_."

"He knows all our names," Ramza said, exchanging puzzled glances with Delita.

"I _know_ ," moaned Beowulf, burying his face in his hands.

"What's the matter with you?" Delita asked.

"It's just so big," Beowulf said. "It's so _real_."

"But the killing wasn't?" Delita said.

Beowulf shook his head. "I trained for that," he said. "I didn't train for this."

Delita opened his mouth, closed it, and gave Ramza a confused look. Ramza shrugged, equally baffled.

"And as for you," Delita said, turning away from Beowulf. "By the Saint, Ramza. You couldn't wait a day?"

"We might not have a day," Ramza said.

Delita sighed and shook his head. "Well, you certainly don't waste time. Have to jump right into the stupid."

"What new folly has my brother committed?" Zalbaag asked.

Ramza and Delita turned down the hall. Zalbaag was striding across the carpet, wearing his dark armor with his blue Hokuten cloak on his shoulders, the very picture of military precision.

"I just don't know how you'd manage another so quickly," Zalbaag continued. "I mean, running away on stolen Hokuten birds to find the Marquis? Where did you get such an idea?"

"Who can say?" Delita asked, smiling.

Zalbaag came to a stop in front of them, and shook each of their hands. "You did well," he said. "Corporal Lambert's eager to have you under his command."

"We're serving with Lambert?" said Delita.

"He requested you," Zalbaag said. "Now, tell me. What new idiocy has my brother committed?"

"I asked them if we could make peace with the Corps," Ramza said.

Zalbaag pursed his lips. "Wow," he said, looking at Delita. "That _is_ stupid."

"I tried to warn him, my lord," Delita said.

"I know," Ramza said, refusing to look either of them in the eye. "But they...the Folles..." He was struggling to put his complex thoughts into words, trying to explain how he'd felt when he'd heard Wiegraf's promise to Ivan, when he'd heard Ivan's pitiable pride, when he'd seen the lengths Wiegraf and Miluda would go to, to bring justice to someone who thought himself beyond its reach.

"You know," Zalbaag said, looking somewhere above his head. "There's not a lot of white in the world. I don't know if there used to be. I think there did. I think God gave us clear instructions." He fingered the silver Virgo symbol upon his neck.

"But then man's greed and pride and evil tainted it. And now? Now there are so few truly righteous responses to the world's wickedness. It's all a quagmire of grey, with black spots and threads of white within."

Ramza stared at his brother in astonishment. He'd never heard Zalbaag talk this way. He didn't think of Zalbaag as the introspective type. He always seemed so firm, so confident, so decisive.

"So what we do," Zalbaag said. "Is wander through the grey, clinging to what white we can find, and trying not to step into anything too black. That's what it means to be a sinner looking for God's truth." He rested a hand on Ramza's shoulder. "You've a big heart, Ramza," he said. "Don't let anyone take that from you."

The compliment would have been nice, if it had not been delivered with the exact same language, and the exact same intonation, as Wiegraf Folles had used in the Cellar. Ramza's throat felt very dry again. He nodded, not really knowing what he was doing, and Zalbaag clapped him on the shoulder and said, "Now. I _suppose_ I'd better go in there and plan this offensive."

He waited for some response from Ramza, who was too busy reeling from a peculiar sense of deja vu and vertigo to pay any attention. Some small part of Ramza noticed that Zalbaag and Delita exchanged bemused looks, and then Zalbaag was gone and Delita was in front of him.

"Are you alright, Ramza?" Delita asked.

"I don't think so, no," Ramza said, and his voice sounded very far away even to his ears. He headed down the hall in a daze.

He was exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally. For the past week, he had been in constant motion, first fighting for his life on the Plains, then chasing after the Marquis with Zalbaag's permission. He had searched for secrets in a simmering city, and met Ivan Mansel, hurt and hunted on all sides. The enemy they had chased had been killed for his unjust acts by a man who spoke like Balbanes and who believed there was no hope of peace. Everything Ramza had seen had confirmed his words. In the past few minutes, he had seen more into his brothers' minds than he had ever known. He had seen them as human as himself.'

He needed to stop. He needed rest. But more than that, he needed answers.

His wandering feet led him to Balbanes' old room. He hesitated by the door.

"-lord, I am not worthy," Argus whispered, with tears in his voice.

"It is no more than you deserve," came the soft, gentle croak of the Marquis Elmdor.

"I abandoned you. I let them-"

"I do not wish to be too prideful," said the Marquis. "But I am widely considered a warrior of moderate caliber." He chuckled. "They deceived us, Argus. They knew they could not defeat us on the field, so they made sure they could slip the daggers into our backs. And in spite of that, you survived. By the grace of God, yes, but also by virtue of your abilities. I had hoped to do you a good service by taking you into my retinue. I had not imagined what wonders God had planned."

"Eavesdropping, our we?" Delita whispered into his ear. Ramza started and whirled around to face his friend, who had snuck up behind him.

"No," Ramza said, ignoring the squirming sense of guilt in his stomach. He knocked on the door to forestall any further comments from Delita, and a moment later it creaked open. Argus stood on the other side. He beamed at Ramza with tears in his eyes, caught him in a crushing embrace, and then guided him into the room.

"This is him, my lord," Argus said.

"Cadet Beoulve?" the Marquis said, propping himself up on his elbows so that a curtain of silver-blonde hair hung around his face. Even after the healers' ministrations, his face was mottled with bruises. It was odd to see him in Balbanes' bed. It made Ramza feel unsteady on his feet.

"Yes, my lord," Ramza said, inclining his head.

"Ramza, you won't believe it," Argus said eagerly. "The Marquis has...I...!"

"Given his exemplary service," the Marquis said. "I felt it only fitting that Argus Thadolfas be appointed Special Limberry Liaison to the Hokuten. To oversee our forces and make sure we pull our weight in the coming conflict."

"Well done!" Delita exclaimed from the doorway. He bowed to the Marquis. "Apologies for any intrusion, my lord."

The Marquis waved one hand weakly. "I think we can abide a little impropriety," he said. "Are you Cadet Daravon or Cadet Heiral?"

"Heiral, my lord," Delita said.

"Then I owe you my thanks, as well," said the Marquis.

"I owe it all to you," Argus said. He fell to his knees, clutching at Ramza's hand, and Ramza stared at him, reeling still more. No one should kneel or bow on Ramza's behalf. "Without you..." He pressed his forehead against Ramza's hand. "Thank you."

"Argus, really!" Ramza said, trying and failing to pull the other man upright. "It was nothing!"

"It was _not_ nothing," Argus said fiercely. "You are a true friend, Ramza, and I behaved monstrously, to you, and to Beowulf, and..." His eyes flickered to the door and he shook his head. "Please. Forgive me. I am not worthy."

Ramza, unsure of what else to do, dropped to one knee himself. "Really, Argus," he said. "It was my duty, as a Beoulve."

Argus looked up at last, smiling with tears trickling down his cheeks. "Then I am luckier still," Argus said. "Thank you, Ramza." He rose to his feet, bringing Ramza with him.

"Now, Argus," the Marquis said. "I know you're tired, but time is of the essence."

"Yes, my lord," Argus said. "But by your leave, I will take the field with Ramza."

The Marquis smiled. "Oh, I think that could be arranged," he said. "Just let Dycedarg know that you request them as your personal escort. Plenty of honor all around."

Argus nodded again, and moved to the door. He hesitated in front of Delita. "Delita-" he started.

"Forget it," Delita said. "I already told you. If it were Ramza, I would have done the same."

Argus bowed slightly, and left the room. Delita and Ramza were left alone with the Marquis.

"Was there something you needed?" the Marquis asked, reddish-brown eyes flickering between them with curiosity.

"I'm not sure," Ramza said. "Maybe. My lord, I-"

"Boys," the Marquis said. "You carried me like a sack of grain. You saved me from the Corps. I think we can do away with the courtesies. You may call me Messam."

"Yes, my-Messam," Ramza said.

"Now," the Marquis said (he might insist on being called Messam, but Ramza could not help but think of him as the Marquis). "What's the trouble?"

"Messam," Ramza said. "We didn't...we didn't save you. Gustav was dead when we got there. Wiegraf had already-"

"Ah, Wiegraf," the Marquis said, his eyes closed. "He is an idealistic soul."

"You knew him, my lord?" Delita said, and then, as the Marquis shot him a sardonic look, added hastily, "Messam."

"I did," the Marquis said. "We fought together in Limberry. Our forces were stretched thin, but between the Brigade and the Hokuten, we held the line. I respected him then. I respect him now. He's simply made an error in judgment."

And there, unbidden, the answer had appeared in front of Ramza.

"What error, Messam?" Ramza asked.

"One far too many idealistic men make," the Marquis replied. "He believes faith alone sufficient."

Ramza stared at the Marquis in surprise. From the corner of his eye, he saw a similar look on Delita's face. The Marquis chuckled, and said, "I take it from your expressions that you've heard I'm something of a fanatic."

"I wouldn't use that word, Messam," Delita said.

"Being a smart lad, I didn't think you would," the Marquis said, smiling.

"But you are an ordained inquisitor in the Glabados Church, aren't you?" Delita asked.

"I am," the Marquis said. "And what of yourselves? Are you men of God?"

Ramza hesitated. The truth was, he'd never spared much thought to St. Ajora or to the God who was supposed to have made the world. His mother had not been a believer, and while Balbanes certainly had, the war kept his father away so often that there had not been much time for Ramza to learn from him. Ramza had always figured that if there was a God, he sort of preferred him hands-off. Ramza was lucky enough: divine attention should be focused elsewhere.

"Not to the same degree as my brother," Ramza said.

"Which is to say that you observe the forms out of social convenience," the Marquis said. "And lack the faith."

Ramza bowed his head slightly. "Yes, my lord."

"And you?" the Marquis asked, glancing towards Delita.

"If I may speak freely, Messam," Delita said. "A man's faith is his own, so long as he is not a heretic."

The Marquis smiled. "Well said. But the problem comes with those who put their personal faiths beyond common good and common authority. It is one thing to seek change: another to tear down the world around you in the vain hope that you can build a better one."

"Wiegraf..." the Marquis closed his eyes and sighed. "Wiegraf and the Corps were wronged. There are seeds of justice in their labors, but their deeds would tear apart a nation. What matter change, if it leaves chaos in its wake?" The Marquis sighed again and settled back on his pillows. "It has ever been my experience that men who hold their personal faith above all else are given to the folly of haste. To believe is easy. We all believe in something. But to build a place of worship? To build a church? That requires patience. That requires laboring and laboring and knowing you may never see the fruits of it."

"But if you seek justice-" Ramza started.

"Then _seek_ it," the Marquis said. "But do not tear down the building. Move through it. It is not as satisfying to build a wall as it is to tear one down. But if you build onto the existing structure...if you labor for justice within an institution of weight and years..."

The Marquis shrugged. "We are all sinners, Ramza. We all have much to atone for. To be just is rarely easy or satisfying. When this is over, we will have to examine our institutions, and hope we can build upon them so that good men like Wiegraf need never have such cause to rebel. But it _is_ a rebellion, and we cannot allow our foundation to be torn apart."

Ramza pursed his lips. It was a good idea, one that spoke to the world Zalbaag had painted: a world where you clung to threads of white as best you could. But as the Marquis said, it was not satisfying. It did not take the weight off of Ramza's mind.

Something of his feeling must have shown on his face, because the Marquis examined him closely, eyes boring into his. "Ramza," he said. "The key to living righteously is to cling to the faith in your heart while dealing with the realities of the world. You and I are men born to illustrious names and power that few men can dream of holding. We have an opportunity to do so much good. And if we labor patiently, if we build upon this church so that we can make it a cathedral...perhaps we can atone for the sins of our fathers."

But suddenly the Marquis looked very pale, and Ramza was abruptly conscious of the fact that this man had been kidnapped and possibly tortured, and Ramza had spent the last several minutes interrogating him.

"I'm sorry, Messam," he said. "We'll take our leave."

"Don't worry, Ramza," the Marquis said. "I'm always pleased to speak with earnest souls like yourselves. Particularly ones with such bright futures ahead of them." He smiled slightly, his eyes drooping. "Not even your father had...rescued a Marquis...at your age."

Ramza bowed, and left the room. Delita bowed as well, then followed him.

"You alright?" Delita asked again.

"No," Ramza answered again. "What did you think of him?"

Delita nodded. "It...it made sense."

"I thought so, too," Ramza said.

They looked at each other in the darkened hall. "We're going to war," Delita said.

Yes. To war, with men like Wiegraf Folles and Ivan Mansel. To men whose cause had carried the seeds of justice. How long could Ramza's hands remain clean? How much more blood would fleck his face?

The answer came to him then, all the day's conversations melding into one. He stared at Delita, his eyes wide.

"Delita," he said. "I know what to do."

"Do you?" Delita asked.

Ramza nodded. "I won't kill anyone. Not a soul."

Delita frowned. "What, you're gonna stay here? After all that?"

"No," Ramza said, shaking his head. "No, I'll...I'll fight. They can't tear the kingdom apart. But they deserve to see justice, too."

"What are you..." Delita trailed off, his mouth agape. "No," he said. "You're not serious."

"I am," Ramza said.

"Ramza, not even Balbanes fought without killing."

"I'm not my father," Ramza said. "I'm not my brothers. I think...I think this is what I believe. I don't think I can kill these men."

Delita sighed and shook his head. "I'm not doing it," Delita said.

"I'm not asking you to," Ramza said. "This is my burden to bear."

Delita snorted. "Always the martyr. Well, fine. Someone's got to keep you safe."

Ramza smiled. "Thank you, Delita."

Delita shrugged. "Well, we already did one impossible deed," Delita said. "Why not add a couple more to the pile?"


	12. Chapter 11: The Best-Laid Plans

**Chapter 11: The Best-Laid Plans**

"I'm sorry, Bestrald" Dycedarg said, pouring a measure of wine into Larg's glass.

Larg waved a hand dismissively. "Please, Dyce," he said. "What do you have to be sorry for?"

"Gustav," Dycedarg said, staring down at his desk. "My brother." He shrugged helplessly. "Everything."

Bestrald shrugged in turn, and took the glass. He lifted it into the dusky sunlight, swirling it idly. "Nothing to be sorry for," Larg said. "We didn't count on Gustav kidnapping him. Or the survivor revealing it."

"There weren't supposed to _be_ survivors," Dyce said gloomily.

"Good thing there were," Larg said. "Otherwise we wouldn't have known fast enough."

Dycedarg shook his head. "It's a mess." He took an undignified swig from his own glass, draining it at once.

"That it is," Larg agreed. He sipped at his glass, enjoying the tart dry tang against his palette. His job now was to act as sounding board for all of Dycedarg's frustrations. He had played the role more than once over the decades they'd known each other. It was a price he willingly paid, so that the mind behind that despondent face would keep working on his behalf.

"It was such a good plan!" Dycedarg exclaimed, rising to his feet and pacing. "The Corps kills the Marquis, so we can use Limberry's forces to finish off the Corps!"

"Well, that part of the plan still works," Larg said.

"With the Marquis alive!" Dycedarg exclaimed. "And now I can't get rid of the pro-peace commanders in the Hokuten."

Larg took another sip of his wine. "No? Why not?"

Dycedarg shook his head. "It was only the Marquis' death that would have justified such extremity," he said. "Traitors in the Hokuten get the liege lord of Limberry killed? God, I could have done what I wanted, and done it in the name of peace."

"And I know how you hate for anyone to get in the way of your unadulterated power," Larg said wryly.

Dycedarg rolled his eyes. "It's _your_ power, Larg," he said. "I just borrow it from time to time."

"Well, can't you dispose of some of them?" Larg asked.

Dycedarg shrugged. "One or two," he said. "Which will make it much harder to go to war. Have to find the right reasons...bah." He waved one hand. "Besides, it wasn't just about that. We were supposed to weaken Limberry, too."

"We still will," Larg said. "They're taking the brunt of the fighting."

"Oh, sure," Dycedarg grunted. "But who knows how long it'll be until King Ondoria dies, and they might have time to rebuild."

"That would be true if you killed Elmdor, too," Larg replied.

"Not quite," Dycedarg said. "He hasn't got an heir."

"When has that ever stopped anyone?" Larg asked.

"No heir," Dycedarg said again. "And so one really with a clear claim. None of the Limberry nobles are all that strong, besides the Elmdor family. The Thadolfas were closest, but of course-"

"Of course," Larg said. "He did well, by the way. I like him."

"Argus?" Dycedarg said. "He's useful. Bit wild for my taste, but he sees a little clearer than Ramza."

"Thank God for your brother," Larg said. He was very grateful for all the good the Beoulves had done him. Balbanes had kept the Hokuten intact through a terrible war, and now Zalbaag continued his legacy of proud and inspiring leadership. Ramza had managed to rescue them from a political quagmire. And Dycedarg...

Well. Dycedarg was the right hand he could not bear to be without.

"Dyce, listen," Larg said. "We were screwed the moment Gustav kidnapped him." Larg pursed his lips. "God, if he'd gotten that ransom, he could've bought himself a new life anywhere he pleased. We might never have found him."

"Is that all you saw?" Dycedarg asked, staring in horror at Larg. Larg was rather used to this: Dycedarg was so brilliantly paranoid, imagining a thousand daggers from a thousand different directions. Of course, some of those daggers were real. The trick was figuring out which.

"Why wouldn't I be?" Larg asked. "He was _supposed_ to kill the Marquis. Instead he went into business for himself. Would've made us look like fools."

"Oh, so what?" Dycedarg asked. "We can stand to look like fools, so long as we're still standing. But Gustav _knew_ , Bestrald. Can you imagine..." He shook his head. "What if he'd _talked_ to the Marquis? Just long enough to get a meeting with Goltanna?"

"Oh," Larg said, and then his eyes widened and he set down his glass and stood up, all without quite knowing what he was doing. " _Oh_."

Dycedarg nodded glumly. "Gustav kills the Marquis," Dycedarg said. "We kill Gustav, and everything folds our way. Gustav takes the Marquis, and you're executed for treason, and so am I, and maybe both our families!"

"And Goltanna takes the throne," Larg whispered.

"And Goltanna takes the throne," agreed Dycedarg, massaging his temples.

"When did you figure this out?" Larg asked.

"The moment I heard he'd been taken," Dycedarg said. "We were skirting disaster."

Larg absently drained his glass and closed his eyes, letting the bitter fire ooze down his throat.

"Well," Larg said. "We've been lucky, haven't we?"

"We have," Dycedarg said. "Argus survived to bring us news, thanks to my brother. Wiegraf dealt with the traitor for us." He paused, then added, "It's a good idea, you know."

"What?" Larg asked, eyes still shut as visions of disaster circled him like gulls at sea.

"Forgiving any Corps troops who surrender," Dycedarg said. "They're basically trained soldiers. We pass some token laws, give them some respect and what gil we can spare...we could build a new regiment out of them."

Larg's mouth twitched, and he opened his eyes to study his old friend. That was what he loved about Dycedarg. In the aftermath of a crisis he was unbearable, poring over every mistake he had made, every disaster that they had narrowly averted, making even the most unambiguous triumphs bittersweet. But that was because his mind never stopped working. He always looking at the pieces, trying to figure out what new ways they could fit together.

"And you!" Dycedarg suddenly snapped, glaring up at Larg. Larg recoiled.

"What about me?" grunted Larg defensively.

"You fought with Goltanna at Orinus' birthday."

Larg rolled his eyes, trying to fend off the stab of doubt and guilt angling for his heart. "Don't believe everything you hear."

"Even when it's Louveria who tells me?" Dycedarg asked, and the knife in Larg's chest redoubled in force.

Larg grimaced. "Since when do you talk to my sister?"

"Since always," Dycedarg said. "What happened?"

Larg held his tongue for just a moment, feeling like a chastened schoolboy. And then that shame gave way to rage, because he was the Prince of Gallione, brother to the queen, and what right did anyone have to make him feel ashamed? "He was so _damnably_ arrogant!" he shouted. "He was snide, and he made his jokes, and he called my sister-!"

"Have you learned nothing from the Corps, Bestrald?" Dycedarg asked. "This war is going to be fought in the hearts of the people. Whatever may be said of you, good or ill, true or false, you must always think about how it will look. About what kind of story will be told. You cannot rule Ivalice if you do not accept this truth."

Larg bit back his bitter response and closed his eyes. Dycedarg would not be saying it if it weren't true. "I know," he whispered. "I know."

"Good," Dycedarg said. "A beloved king is much harder to assassinate. Look how little anyone cares what becomes of Ondoria. Do you want to repeat his failures?"

"No," Larg said. No, never. When the throne was his, he would be a king worth remembering. He would be the king presiding over Ivalice's golden age. He had known it from the moment his sister had married Ondoria.

"It's not as bad as all that," Larg said, forcing himself away from the alluring visions of his future reign. "The Limberry forces will take the brunt of this fighting. We'll build a new regiment from whichever members of Corps who surrender. And Gustav still had Hokuten cloaks. You can still take out the worst of the opposition."

"I suppose," Dycedarg sighed. "But we'll have to have sufficient pretext to mobilize the rest to war. Goltanna will have to be unambiguously in the wrong. It's the only way to make sure they won't sabotage our efforts." He said nothing for a moment, then added, "And the King?"

"Sicker by the day," Larg said. "He won't last long."

"Orinus will need a regent," Dycedarg said.

"And who can my sister trust, but her dear brother?" Larg asked.

Dycedarg poured the rest of the bottle into their glasses, and raised his to Larg. "To the Crown," he said.

Larg raised his glass in turn. "To the Crown."

To the crown that would one day sit upon his head. Especially so long as he kept Dycedarg by his side.


	13. Chapter 12: Purpose

**Chapter 12: Purpose**

 _...when the War of the Lions finally broke, the two armies had their own advantages. His location in Zeltennia and his careful maintenance of the fortifications from the 50 Years' War gave Goltanna a decisive defensive advantage, but he lacked the numbers and experience that gave the Hokuten leave to outmaneuver him. Not only were his Limberry forces still depleted, but the Hokuten had trained their new recruits against the Death Corps. Besides this, a significant number of the Corps was captured or surrendered, and were granted amnesty in exchange for service to the Crown..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The Hokuten: From Ydoran Militia to Illustrious Army"_

Pebbles scattered underfoot as swords clashed in ringing blows across the foothills. A bitter wind blew out of the mountains, carrying it with the wet frost of the distant sea. Farther up the hills, Beowulf dueled two men: Delita had already left a body in his wake, and was charging up the slope. Farther up the hill, Argus, Lambert, and the other Hokuten soldiers fought a wide line of troops.

Ramza's sword was fallen in the dust, but so had his foe's. His metal-lined leather gauntlets gave his blows extra weight, and he knocked aside the Corps' soldier's flailing punches, pinned him to the ground and wrapped his arm around his neck. The man struggled and twisted against his chest, his breathing coming in frenzied gasps. With agonizing slowness, the man stopped struggling. As his breath slowed to a dull whisper, Ramza released his grip, and the man slumped unconscious to the dirt.

But there was no time to rest, though Ramza's nose was bleeding and his ribs ached and he felt a bruise forming on his brow. He rose to his feet, racing up the hill to help the others.

It was only two days after the group had returned to Igros that the northern defenses of the Hokuten were crippled by a surprise attack. Everyone knew that the Corps had their strongest bases in the frigid north along the Rhana Strait, but there was only a single winding pass through the mountains that separated the Strait and Igros, and the Hokuten had manned garrisons at the entrance to this pass so that no army could surprise them. They wouldn't fritter away their forces on a push to the north, but they could make sure that no one ever came through.

At least, so they thought. But small, well-trained bands of Death Corps veterans had migrated through the mountains themselves, catching the forts and garrisons by surprise. Suddenly there were Corps soldiers within striking distance of Igros, and the Hokuten meant to guard them were scattered across southern Gallione.

The forces of Limberry were still days away, but the Special Limberry Liaison could not miss a chance to show his talents, and he brought his Hokuten escort along for the ride. So Ramza Beoulve's resolve not to kill was tested for the first time.

The problem, Ramza had realized, was the sword itself. The sword was not a defensive weapon. The sword might be able to block a foe's blade, but it's principle purpose was to cut an opponent's flesh. Ramza did not have the skill to cut and not to kill: even if he did, he would have been hesitant to wound, not knowing what consequences it might bring. A fist might kill a man, but the odds were much smaller.

Ramza had been one of the best at the Academy at unarmed combat (which wasn't saying much: no one was counting on their fists winning a war). Over the next few days, he had cause to get better still, as he learned how to twist just so to knock a blade from an enemy's hand. Five small battles, and six men captured.

But it was too risky, too hard a fight for too little gain. He needed better tools, if he was to cling to this thread of righteousness.

He started with Argus, archery practice after every battle, even when his ribs ached and his arms felt hollow and the cut on his face had not yet healed. Practicing and practicing until he could hit a dummy anywhere he wanted from ten yards, then twenty, then fifty.

"But your targets move," Argus said. "Doesn't matter how keen your eyes. You can't practice hitting a moving target without hitting a living thing."

"How did you learn?" Ramza asked.

"Hunting," Argus said. "It's about all my father _did_ , towards the end."

"Your father was a hunter?" Ramza asked.

"He started before my grandfather..." Argus trailed off. Ramza glanced towards him, but couldn't make out his face through the thick shadows of the night. "And anyways, saved us on food. Our coffers were starting to run dry. He probably bought us another few years from hunting." Argus shrugged. "I was handy with a bow before I was 12."

But there could be no time to hunt, could there? It was taking all the energy Ramza had merely to practice hitting the stationary targets. He was exhausted.

He thought the solution might lie in magic, so he he consulted with the healer who'd complimented his dressings—Rauffe.

"That's a tricky question," Rauffe admitted. "Trickier because I'm not a trained mage."

"But you're a healer," Ramza said.

"A military healer," Rauffe said. "We learn according to other traditions. With the right equipment, it doesn't take much work. I only trained for six months at Igros. Didn't even need to go to Gariland magic academy."

"Why does that make a difference?" Ramza asked.

"You want to...what?" Rauffe said. "Put your enemies to sleep, right?"

"Something like that," Ramza said.

Rauffe shook his head. "I don't know much magical theory," he said. "But your body constantly carries a field of magic around it. This field protects you, or strengthens you. Usually when you're fighting someone else it's kind of a wash: their field tries to protect them, yours tries to hurt them. It takes a lot of time, energy, effort, and equipment to strengthen that field so you can use it. You'd have to find a way to make their body do something it doesn't want to do."

"But you can heal people!" Ramza said.

" _I_ can't do anything," Rauffe said. He raised his gloves. "These cost about half as much as I'll make this year. Take them away from me, and I can't do much more than heal scrapes and bruises. The only reason I can heal anyone, even _with_ these, is because the body heals on its own. I'm strengthening their magic, not trying to bypass it."

Ramza sighed. He knew a little of this—at least enough to know how difficult it was. Even in the halcyon days of the Ydoran Empire, mages had been a minority. Now they had only the dregs of what Ydoran knowledge they could find, and only the Gariland Magic Academy produced any mages of consistent quality.

"Can you teach me anyways?" Ramza asked.

"What I can," Rauffe said.

Enough Hokuten units were eventually filtered back to serve as guards for Igros, and Ramza and his friends returned to the Beoulve Manor. Argus consulted with the Marquis: Beowulf disappeared with Reis: Ramza and Delita trained with Coproral Lambert and his men.

But even Ramza and Delita could not train all the time. Alma and Teta found them late one night with two bottles of wine.

"So they sent you to your fancy school so you could _not_ kill anyone," Alma said.

"Shouldn't _you_ be at school?" Ramza asked.

Alma shook her head. "Dyce wants us home," he said. "Especially with the Corps near Igros. We're safer in the Manor."

"And I'm sure you mind being pulled away," Ramza said.

"Oh, dreadfully," Alma replied, smiling.

"What about you?" Delita asked.

Teta shrugged. "I mean, it means more time with Alma," Teta said. "But I'm sure I'll endure."

"Thanks," Alma grunted.

There was a knocking upon the door. "Come in!" Alma called.

"It's my room," muttered Ramza, but he trailed off as Dycedarg entered, wearing formal robes with Service hanging at his side.

"Ramza," Dycedarg said. "May I speak with you in the hallway?"

Ramza's throat went dry. He rose to his feet, waved Delita down when he started to rise as well, and followed Dycedarg into the hall.

"You've done well, Ramza," Dycedarg said, but his voice was just as soft and deadly as it had been when they'd returned from their rescue of the Marquis.

"Thank you," Ramza said cautiously.

"Five battles," Dycedarg said. "Five victories. Twelve men captured. Six of them by you."

"Yes," Ramza said.

"I hear you haven't killed a single man," Dycedarg said.

Ramza hesitated. He could feel the weight of his brother's shadow. "I haven't," he said.

"Ramza," Dycedarg said. "What are you doing?"

"Trying to stop the Corps," Ramza said.

"Without killing anyone?" Dycedarg said.

"If I can."

"You can't." Dyecdarg sighed. "I told you this before, Ramza. To be a Beoulve requires-"

"Requires what, Dyce?" Ramza asked. He felt his stomach quiver at his own audacity, and saw a look of shock on Dycedarg's face. But exhausted as he was, desperate as he was, Ramza felt righteous. This was something he wanted to do, and he was surprised to find the courage that gave him. "Why should I kill men who were wronged?"

Dycedarg's face hardened. "So you blame the Crown?"

"I blame no one," Ramza said. "I don't want to have to make decisions like that. They were treated unjustly, and they resort to unjust means to correct it. I don't want to be unjust, Dyce.

"So you can think of no reason to ever execute a man?" Dycedarg asked.

"I can think of no reason to execute _these_ men!" Ramza shouted.

Dycedarg inhaled deeply, his nostrils flaring. "You cannot possibly live up to the responsibilities of our name without bloodying your sword," Dycedarg said.

"You may be right," Ramza said. "But I see no reason I shouldn't try."

Dycedarg closed his eyes and sighed. He reached beneath his robes and pulled out a strange bundle of purple cloth and a crumpled piece of paper. He offered them to Ramza. "Gently," he said.

"What is this?" Ramza asked, taking them from Dycedarg's hands. The bundle of cloth had a strange, cloying smell that made Ramza's head feel light.

"Bestrald was almost poisoned at his tenth birthday," Dycedarg said. "I was there." It took Ramza a moment to remember that Bestrald was Prince Larg's first name. "That was how I started researching poisons and their antidotes. I was quite good at it. I admit, I've never had cause to put the knowledge to practical use, and even if I had, what you're holding is outside my field of expertise."

"What am I holding?" Ramza asked.

"A bundle of herbs wrapped around a detonator of the kind we use for our cannons," Dycedarg said. "In theory, this will explode on contact with the ground and release a cloud of spores and pollen that will cloud the eyes, bodies, and minds of anyone who breathes it in. It's non-toxic, too. The worst they'll get is similar to a hangover. The paper has a list of the ingredients you need, and instructions on how to package and prepare it. Most quartermasters should have the supplies on hand."

Ramza stared at the purple bundle in his hand, and lifted his eyes back to Dycedarg. "When did you...?"

"It's copied off a design we used in the War," Dycedarg said. "I just modified it a little."

"Dyce-" Ramza started.

"It is difficult to be a Beoulve, Ramza," Dycedarg said. "You cannot keep the blood off your hands forever. The least I can do is make sure your hands are clean as long as possible."

Ramza hugged his brother. He felt Dyce stiffen in surprise, and then wiry arms folded around Ramza.

He would have liked more time to learn how to use these devices, but the next morning he awoke with his mouth dry and his head pounding in time with the knocking at his door. The Marquis had given Argus new instructions, and Argus needed his escort.

The Death Corps was entrenched across southern Gallione, occupying old forts and abandoned towns emptied by the long, brutal progress of the 50 Years' War. Man-for-man, the Hokuten could probably have bested the Corps, but each fight turned into an unforgiving slog that tied up too many troops. With the forces of Limberry on the march, that was no longer such a problem, but the Corps knew it, too, and the attack in the north had acted like a signal, sending their forces raiding. Southeast Gallione was a hornet's nest of small Corps bands, making sure that when Limberry's army arrived it wound find an inhospitable countryside, slowing their movements.

So the Special Limberry Liaison was sent to clear the way, along with his escort and a handful of Hokuten knights.

Ramza knew intellectually that this feud with the Death Corps was practically a skirmish compared to the miles-wide battles of the 50 Years' War, but he could not truly understand this fact. He had never fought like this before. Three battles stood out in his memory for a long time to come. The first was an old blocky garrison protected by some twenty armed men and women, where swords clashed and clattered against each other in the heavy afternoon air. The second was an bandoned tavern house, whose archers had sunk an arrow into Rauffe's shoulder before Ramza and his friends even knew they were in danger. The third was an old canyon lined with tents and guarded by one of the few mages who served Corps, lathering the outlying hills with fire and lightning to drive back any man who got close.

But the Corps had not reckoned the Special Limberry Liaison and his escort. The two dozen swords who held the old garrison were not prepared for Beowulf and Delita, whirling in among them like cyclones of steel, cutting down anyone who might try to stop them. And though the mage bathed the outlying hills in frost, fire, and crackling lightning, he made himself too prominent a target, and one swift arrow from Argus felled him where he stood.

As for the archers in the old tavern? Every one of them lived.

The Special Limberry Liaison and his escort had approached at dusk, and retreated the moment the arrow hit their healer. Rauffe and Ramza worked together to dress Rauffe's wound, and the group tried to decide what to do. But Ramza already knew what he would do. He spent the next few hours studying the tavern from afar, eying its doors and its windows. There was one he kept his eye on: a window that was always open on the top floor, with an archer visible inside.

In the deep of the night, Ramza prepared four arrows, each with one of Dycedarg's devices bound around its head. They gave the arrows a strange weight, but Argus had compared them to fire arrows, so Ramza had practiced a little bit with those as they moved across Gallione. Now he put what he had learned to use. He trained his Hokuten-issue bow, aimed just above the tavern, and released.

The arrow exploded into a cloud of white dust. He heard coughs and shouts of alarm from inside the tavern, but Ramza was still preparing his other arrows, aiming for other doors, other windows. As the shouts and cries and coughs escalated, he laid down his bow and charged forwards with his sword in his hand. He rested his other hand on his chest, and the twin runes he'd etched there with Rauffe's help glowed for a moment.

Ramza had not learned nearly enough to do any meaningful healing, and without proper Ydoran materials he couldn't really enhance himself anyways. But this was slightly different. The two runes had been inscribed with some smaller materials and were designed to simply absorb his ambient magical energy, and released it back into his system. One to ease his breathing. One that boosted his immune system so it could fight off foreign toxins.

So when Ramza burst through the tavern door, he and he alone could breathe easy, and fight with his mind clear. Choking and gasping, the Corps tried to fight the interloper. Choking and gasping, they couldn't. Swords swung, and were knocked from numb hands. Clumsy fingers fumbled for their bows, before Ramza was upon them, prying their weapons from their grasps and knocking them to the ground. The fight was endless, but he needed to do this alone. He needed to know he could.

"And how many were there?" Instructor Daravon asked, pouring a generous measure of whiskey into Ramza's glass.

"Eight," Ramza said, his legs, chest, and arms aching as he curled back against Daravon's comfortable armchair.

"Eight," repeated Daravon, shaking his head. "Eight soldiers, taken alive. And you're only a cadet yet, Ramza." He smiled, and looked around the room. "You've all done so well."

Victorious from their campaign across southern Gallione, they had come to Gariland, waiting to make contact with the Limberry forces streaming in from the east. Beowulf had insisted they come to his father's, and Ramza could see why. It was a cozy, dilapidated place squatting in the center of a few wild acres on the outskirts of Gariland. The foyer they were sitting in had an enormous fireplace casting shadows against the vaulted ceilings, with a haphazard array of sunken furniture scattered within.

"Even me?" Beowulf asked, and in that moment for all he'd done at their side he looked very young.

"Even you," Daravon said. He bent over his son and kissed him on the forehead. Beowulf squirmed with embarrassment, but could not hid the smile on his face.

Argus rose from his chair and stumbled to the balcony. Ramza rose from his own chair, his head swimming, but hesitated.

"Go," Daravon said.

Ramza followed after. He pushed open the glass doors and stepped out onto a little hemispherical balcony overlooking Daravon's acres. He slumped down onto the banister next to Argus, and the two men stared out over the wild grass with the stars gleaming overhead.

"Thank you," Ramza said.

"All I did was teach you to hold a bow," Argus said.

"You also killed that mage," Delita said, stepping through the doors and standing on the opposite side of Argus.

"I suppose," Argus said.

"Argus," Ramza said. "What happened to your parents?"

Argus said nothing for a while, and merely drank from his glass. Ramza did not press the issue, and he and Delita did not exchange glances.

"Father loved to hunt," Argus croaked. "Surprised a back of minotaurs during mating season. They...he didn't make it." Argus was silent again, finishing his glass. "Mother didn't last long. She'd always been a bit too fond of her wine, and she mixed it with a tincture she was supposed to take sparingly for her back trouble. The Healers said it was an accident, but..."

The stars gleamed over head. Wind rustled the grass.

"And now you're the Special Limberry Liaison," Ramza said.

"I...yes." A smile flickered across Argus' face and then was gone.

"Choking plague," Ramza said. "For mine."

"And mine." Delita said.

Another long silence, as the three young men stood together with their glasses in hand.

"A month ago," Delita said. "We were squires and cadets."

The three men stood on the balcony, and stared out at the stars. And for the first time he could remember, Ramza felt like he was exactly where he wanted to be.


	14. Chapter 13: Just Like You

**Chapter 13: "Just Like You"**

 _...like the Nanten, the armed forces of Limberry were decimated by the constant fighting of the 50 Years' War, having to hold their territory against a powerful army that occupied nearly a third of their traditional territory for decades. Unlike the Nanten, however, their armies never fully recovered. Limberry was neither as prosperous or populous as the other regions of Gallione, and what efforts had been made to reconstitute their forces were undone by a number of a rebellions, including the conflict with the Death Corps and Miluda Folles' famous charge through their ranks..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The War of the Lions"_

Smoke in the air, thick and cloying from countless small fires. The armies of Gallione and Limberry were stretched across the Plains. Hundreds of men. Perhaps thousands. And again, Ramza felt the strange disconnect. He had never seen so many soldiers assembled in one place, or felt the stunning weight of their collective purpose.

How could his brothers command still more men? How could his father have led such armies into even more terrible battles? But the truth was, it didn't feel quite as daunting as it once had. The past few weeks had given Ramza a taste for audacity. He could dream a little bigger than he once had.

Still, he didn't want that weight on his shoulders, and he was glad that he was not in command here.

"Ramza!" Delita called from farther down the hill. Ramza shaded his eyes against the setting sun and saw his friend striding towards him.

"How is he?" Ramza asked.

Delita snorted. "He's pissing off the Viscount again."

Ramza chuckled. The Special Limberry Liaison and his escort had set out from Daravon's estate and met the incoming wave of soldiers from Limberry. This had immediately degenerated into an authoritative disaster, because the field commander of the Limberry forces, once Viscount Maronne, did not want to take orders from a squire, much less a Thadolfas. If the Viscount had not been a rather vain and inexperienced young woman, the soldiers of Limberry might have followed her lead. As it was, every maneuver and every night's camp devolved into a lurching, stumbling mess as the confused Limberry soldiers tried to figure out who they were supposed to obey.

"It's a little better, though," Delita said. "They don't want to embarrass themselves in front of the Hokuten, so they're trying to present a united front. They've at least agreed that Argus will distribute the Limberry reserve units to reinforce their line."

"Well, that's something," Ramza said. "Where's Beowulf?"

"Some of the soldiers were going to have a melee," Delita said. "Everyone throws in 50 gil. Winner takes the pot."

"Of course," Ramza sighed.

Delita sat down in the grass. Ramza kept staring out over the tents.

"What's the plan?" Ramza asked.

"Units are going to spread out," Delita said. "Sweep south. Kill or capture every soldier of the Death Corps we can find."

"A net across all Gallione," Ramza said.

"Looks like."

Delita fished a blade of grass from the ground next to him and put to his lips. The low buzzing filled the air.

"It's big," Ramza said.

"I know," Delita said. "You ready?"

"I think so," Ramza said.

"You look it." Ramza looked down to his friend, who was looking up at him with appraising eyes. "Doing the impossible agrees with you," Delita said.

"It's not impossible," Ramza said.

"No," Delita said, smiling. "I guess it's not."

That thought carried Ramza through the evening, and stayed with him even as he awoke the next morning, and joined Argus at the commanders' tent. A lot of men and women would die today and in days to come. Ramza couldn't help that. What he could do was make sure that he saved as many people as he could. He checked his armor. He checked his sword. He examined the arrows with their bundled packs of cloth, and he fingered the runes he'd inscribed onto his chest with the little stones that were supposed to quietly absorb ambient magical energy for emergency use.

Then he was off and moving. The Special Limberry Liaison needed his escort, after all.

They rode together atop seven chocobos: Argus in the lead, with the others flared back around him in a loose v-shape. Solid lines of soldiers were sweeping throughout southern Gallione, surrounding, besieging, killing, and capturing. Wherever those units were having trouble, Argus and his men rode in—to provide support, to assess the situation, and to take the front lines themselves.

On the third day, they had pushed so far south that they had left the Mandalia Plains behind. Their duty for the day was reconnaissance: interrogated soldiers had indicated that there was a main storehouse somewhere in the coastal marshes, a place where battered bands of Death Corps troops retreated to rearm and resupply, and where their wounded were cared for. But sending an army into the swamps would have been a waste of time, effort, and manpower. The lines of soldiers continued their sweep, encircling the main routes out of the bog so no one could escape. The Special Limberry Liaison and his escort searched for this storehouse, riding over old docks, past low shacks where fishermen and hunters had once plied their trade, and a dozen other places. They found traces of soldiers—old firepits, trash and abandoned latrines—but nothing of the soldiers themselves.

The swamps stank, and the thick humidity left Ramza's armor creaking and squeaking against his chafed skin. He wasn't alone, either: they were, every one of them, in a foul mood, trying to find some way to get comfortable and muttering curses to themselves as they failed. Things rustled in the underbrush or slithered through the mire, and if you escape your own sweaty reek you found only the rotting muddy fog of the place waiting for you. The whole place boiled with quiet hostility.

And just like that—stinking, sweating, swearing—their birds wound down a path, and they came face-to-face with Miluda Folles.

She wasn't alone: she and two other women stood upon a narrow wooden pontoon bridge leading out to a blocky structure of mud, brick, and wooden slats in the middle of a pond. One of Miluda's allies wore leather armor with her red hair tied back in a ponytail. The other wore heavy knight's gear with her blonde hair cut boyishly short. Their swords were drawn, and they faced the oncoming soldiers with nothing but fury in their eyes.

Fury, and a moment's shock on Miluda's face.

Argus had an arrow nocked and trained before Ramza had quite begun to think. Ramza raised his voice to shout a warning, and the red-headed woman slashed her sword. The air between her and Argus shimmered like heat off stone walls, and Argus slumped in his saddle, his bow trembling in his hands.

"W-what?" stuttered Argus, blinking wearily.

From the corner of his eye, Ramza saw the woman fall to one to knee, with Miluda resting a comforting hand on her shoulder. Ramza hesitated, looking between them—between Argus, turning his head slowly from side to side, and Miluda and her soldiers. He remembered the last thing she'd said to him. Her insistence that they were foes by birth.

He raised both hands, and shouted, "Peace!"

"Ramza!" hissed Argus, though his voice was weak, but Ramza still had his certainty. He dismounted his chocobo, and walked forward his hands upraised.

"Come no closer, Beoulve!" Miluda shouted, when Ramza was some twenty feet away.

"If you insist, Folles," Ramza said, coming to a stop.

"Your friend just tried to kill me," Miluda said.

"Your friend beat his Marquis to a pulp," Ramza replied.

"And that's justice?" she asked.

"No," Ramza said. "Neither is killing him. None of this is just."

There was the squishing sound of feet in the mud. Ramza turned his head slightly and saw that Delita had also dismounted, and was approaching with his hands in the air.

"What do you want, Beoulve?" she asked.

"We were sent to find a Death Corps base," Ramza said. He jerked his head towards the building in the distance. "I take it that's the place?"

Miluda said nothing, but Ramza saw her grip tighten on her blade.

"You could kill me," Ramza said. "But I'm not alone." He jerked his head back towards the men on their birds. "One of them will get away. You know they will. They'll let the others know where you are."

"They won't catch us," the blonde woman whispered.

"They will," Delita said. "You know they will."

"We'll kill every one of them," the blonde woman said.

"If you kill ten of them for every one of you who falls," Delita said. "You'll still lose. And somehow I don't think the wounded will be killing ten soldiers apiece. Do you?"

"What do you want, Beoulve?" Miluda repeated, her face impassive. "Do you think I'll surrender to you? You've already told me what happens to the people who do. How exactly did you find out where we were?"

Ramza felt a sudden dryness in his throat, at odds with the sticky heat of the swamp. He hadn't asked. He hadn't even stopped to think. But he knew, didn't he? How else did you interrogate a man? And how many of those that had been interrogated were men and women that Ramza had captured?

Precarious again, fragile again, clinging to a thread of white in a world of murky grey. No justice on any side, right? He'd said so himself.

"I want you to surrender," Ramza said. "But not to me."

Miluda studied him, her mouth twisted to one side. "No?"

"No," Ramza said. "If you ride north. If you fortify beyond the Lenalian Mountains. You can sue for fair terms."

"Ramza!" Argus shouted. He was off his chocobo now, stumbling towards him as though his body had fallen asleep. Ramza's eyes flickered to the red-haired woman still on her knees at Miluda's side. What had she done to him? What magic was that?

"Emilie, no!" barked Miluda. The woman had advanced a single step, her blade pointing towards Ramza

"If you want to fight, feel free," Beowulf called. Violet was strolling forwards, and Beowulf had both his swords drawn atop his bird's back. His face was still mottled with bruises from the melee days past. "You won't make it out alive."

"No one is fighting!" Ramza shouted, though his stomach lurched as though he had taken a plunge from a tall place. He kept his hands in the air. "I've spoken with my brothers," Ramza said. "I've spoken with the Prince. Once you're out of the south, they have no reason to risk their troops in the north. They'll let you surrender with fair terms."

"But it will be a surrender, Beoulve!" Miluda shouted. "They will go right back to taking everything from us."

"You insolent cur!" spat Argus. "You defy the natural order, and you call it justice."

"What order?" Miluda demanded. "The order where you steal from our pockets and take the food from our mouths? The order where the men and women who won you your kingdom suffer because you will not bear your burden?"

"We bear the burden of leadership!" Argus roared. "This is God's will, whore. And when you refuse to serve, you are as useful as a cow who can no longer be milked. No!" He shook his head. "No, that's not fair. The cow does not believe itself the equal of the farmer. The cow can still be useful in death."

"Argus, enough!" Delita growled.

"You _would_ side with her," Argus hissed.

"ENOUGH!" Ramza said, louder still. He contorted his face into a glare, tried to pretend at a ferocity he did not feel.

"We're human," whispered Miluda. "Just like you."

"You're _nothing_ like me," Argus snarled.

Everything was spinning, and Ramza could feel it, like water trickling through his fingers. Soon there would be nothing left but the need for violence. Nothing left but injustice.

"Argus," Ramza said. "She saved the Marquis just as much as we did."

"Curs like her took him!" Argus yelled. "Took him and killed...so many, Ramza!"

Ramza hesitated, just for a moment. He knew how cruel he was about to be, but he saw no other way to make his point.

"Argus," Ramza said. "That's like saying every noble is like your grandfather."

He saw the pain and shock in Argus' face, eyes wide with just the faintest hint of tears. Before that pain could turn to anger, Ramza pressed, "She saved the Marquis. She and her brother. We can't hate them for that."

Argus closed his eyes. "What would you have me do, Ramza?" he asked, his voice soft. "Let them go?"

"Yes," Ramza said. "We can't beat them. Not like this."

"Hold on," Lambert said, riding his own bird forwards with Rauffe and the other men of the Hokuten at his side. "Ramza, you can't make this call."

"I know," Ramza said. "He can." He nodded at Argus.

Argus said nothing for a long time. Ramza felt his heart straining. He felt as though he were standing on a swaying rope that was about to snap beneath his weight.

"Argus," Ramza said, as the silence stretched. "Please. They don't have to kill anyone. _We_ don't have to kill anyone. Just tell them where to go. Where we aren't."

"Surrender's not an option," said Emilie.

"Maybe not," Delita said. "But it might be, if terms are fair enough. Pardons. Amnesty. Maybe even some laws passed that address your concerns. And the fortified the north is, the more likely it'll be that they have to deal with you with words instead of swords."

"Everyone lives," Ramza said. "Argus. Please."

"Alright," Argus whispered. "Alright." He opened his eyes, and Ramza saw the faintest trace of tears still on his face. He turned away at once and said, "Let me...let me look at my maps."

Lambert came closer, his eyes flickering between Miluda, Ramza, and the other Hokuten. "Ramza," he said quietly. "This isn't a good idea."

"Why not?" Ramza asked. "I don't feel like dying today. I don't feel like killing today. Do you?"

"I..." Lambert shook his head. "You're setting policy."

"I'm not," Ramza said. "I'm choosing who to fight. We all do that, don't we?"

"If you'd like a fight," Emilie said. "I'd be happy to oblige you."

"No one's fighting unless I'm involved," Beowulf said.

"No one's fighting anyone," Ramza said.

"Why are you doing this?" asked the red-headed woman. She was on her feet again, though she seemed a bit unsteady, and watched him with intense dark eyes.

"I'm trying not to kill anyone," Ramza said.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't think any of you deserve to die," Ramza replied. He hesitated, then he looked to Miluda. "And...and I don't think we have to be enemies. You're human, just like me."

Miluda pursed her lips. The group hung in uneasy silence.

"North," Argus called, walking forwards. "Well. East first, until she hit the Lenalian river. Then you'll ride north along it until you hit the Siedge Swamplands. When you leave the Siedge, head north towards the Lenalian Plateau. Whatever you do, do not go towards Gariland. We're using it as a staging area, and I can't speak for the movements of the soldiers there."

"You don't have anyone on the river?" Emilie asked in disbelief.

"No one," affirmed Argus. "We didn't know the are well enough, and we know none of the Corps operates near it."

"How can I trust you?" Miluda asked, her deep voice level.

Ramza turned back to face her, shrugging. "I want what's just," Ramza said.

"Beoulve," she repeated, shaking her head.

The rope felt so close to breaking.

"Alright," Miluda said. "Ride out of here."

"You're not giving the orders, you sow," Argus spat.

Ramza held up a forestalling hand.

"We're going north," Ramza said. "Well camp in an hour, and we'll report what we've seen by midday tomorrow. You have to be on the move by then."

"And if we're not?" Miluda asked.

"You know," Delita said.

Miluda nodded slowly. "Alright," she said, sheathing her sword.

Ramza felt weak with relief. He turned back to where he'd left his bird.

"Beoulve!" she shouted. Ramza looked over his shoulder. "If this is a trap," she said. "I'll kill you. I'll kill your family. I won't stop hunting you. Not to the very ends of the earth."

"It's not a trap," Ramza said.

Miluda shrugged, and headed back down the pontoon bridge, supporting the red-headed woman. Emilie spat on the ground, then turned to follow.

The group rode at once. No one spoke until they made camp an hour later.

"I want guards posted throughout the night!" Argus shouted. "Everyone sleep light. I don't want us getting ambushed."

"They won't ambush us," Ramza said.

"Just like they didn't ambush me?" Argus asked. Again, the pain in his eyes.

"Argus," Ramza said, taking him by the shoulders. "I'm sorry."

Argus shook his head. "You can't trust them, Ramza," he said. "They're monsters."

"They're not," Ramza protested.

"They are," Argus whispered. "I've seen what they do. Destroying the natural order. Opposing God's will. They'd burn Ivalice to the ground, and you would rather let the flames smolder."

"Then why did you listen to me?" Ramza asked.

Argus smiled slightly. "Like you said," Argus replied. "I believe in repaying my debts."

It was like the Marquis had said, wasn't it? The will of God, rewarding him for his pursuit of justice. Even a man who didn't believe in his cause still gave him the tools he needed to try and serve it.

"Thank you," Ramza whispered, and he slept that night with a deep, profound relief.


	15. Chapter 14: The Manor Besieged

**Chapter 14: The Manor Besieged**

"I mean, it's not like I _mind_ getting away from the Academy," huffed Alma, glaring out her window. "But why do I have to be locked up in here?"

"It's not safe," Teta said. Personally, she was relieved. She liked the Beoulve Manor. She liked being Alma's lady-in-waiting. It wasn't difficult, since Alma was so restless that she pushed aside all Teta's attempts to help her.

"I _know_ it's not safe!" Alma shouted. "It's not safe for anyone! So why..." She trailed off and folded her arms across her chest.

Teta said nothing. She knew better. Alma had been fixated on her exclusion from military training ever since Ramza had begun his. Perhaps it was an even older obsession. Perhaps she'd been obsessed since her father had died, and she and her brother had been ordained a full-fledged Beoulves. She flung herself into their magic classes at the Preparatory Academy, but those were designed to protect the women from kidnapping and assassination, not to make them useful. Or at least, so Teta gathered: generous as the Beoulves were, they would not buy Teta any Ydoran jewelry to amplify her magic. Who would ever want to assassinate her, anyways?

Maybe that was why she liked the Manor. No expectations. No responsibilities. No need to teeter on that line between civility and submissiveness so the other women of the Academy would not look at her as either threat or easy prey.

She looked out the window, smiling a little. The barbs and jibes of spoiled noblewomen were little concern to her. Her brother was somewhere out there with a sword in hand and enemies trying to kill him. He'd already shown himself so strong. What did words matter, while Delita dodged swords?

"They'll be alright," Teta said.

"They'd be _more_ alright if we were there," Alma said.

Was that true? And even if it was, was it worth killing anyone? Teta didn't think so. Teta had yet to hear a single compelling argument for why this stupid war had to be fought in the first place, though she was careful never to say so. No one, at the Academy or in this manse, would take kindly to a commoner questioning their fight against the Corps. She'd spent a lot of her life keeping her thoughts to herself, even from Alma. Alma would never betray her, Alma would never judge her, but Alma might repeat the things Teta had said, confident that she could convince anyone to listen. But good intentions could hurt you just as easily as bad ones. It was safer this way.

People lost enough to the accidents of life—to cart crashes and to plagues. Why add human malice to the list? Why not leave well enough alone?

Staring out the window and thinking of her brother. Thinking of her parents. Thinking of the Academy, and nasty whispers, and bloody swords. Thinking of...

She squinted. There was someone moving in the distance. Not on the roads, but on the rolling hills that led up to the Beoulve Manor. That was unusual: most official delegations took the road.

"Alma?" Teta said. "Do you see that?"

"See what?" Alma asked, peering over her shoulder. "Who are they?"

"I don't know," Teta said, but she felt a creeping sense of something, like the tingling on your skin just before a storm. There was something off about those men, something she couldn't quite place, something in the scraps of dark green cloth they wore, or-

Dark green. No one wore dark green but the Corps.

"Alma!" Teta shouted. "Lock the door!"

"What?" Alma asked, but there was no time to explain, and she was not going to allow her best friend to die like her parents had died. Teta rushed from the room, pounded down the stairs, and pushed her way past the surprised guard standing outside of Dycedarg's door.

"Teta?" he said, looking up in surprise from a map of Gallione splayed across his desk. "What are you-"

"It's the Corps," she said. "They're coming by the southern wall."

"That's not possible," Dycedarg said, though he grabbed at Service.

"I saw them, Dyce," she said, momentarily careless of propriety or civility. "Dark green cloth."

"Corps members wearing their colors?" he said. "That's not-"

There were shouts of alarm from outside, and the ringing clash of sword against sword. A moment later, a bloodcurdling shriek sent frost coursing through Teta's veins.

"Damn!" Dycedarg roared, drawing the gleaming blade from its sheathe. He threw open the door and gestured to the knight outside.

"Alma?" Dycedarg asked.

"I told her to lock the door," Teta said.

"And what do you think are the chances she actually did?" Dycedarg asked.

"50/50," Teta said.

"Wow, she likes you," Dycedarg said. "I can't order her to do anything."

"You brought her back from the Academy."

"She _wanted_ to leave the Academy."

She had never spoken with Dycedarg like this before. Ramza, of course: Zalbaag, occasionally: but Dycedarg? Never. Why now? Why, when blades clashed and someone screamed their death-scream? Why didn't this feel real, even as fear chilled her to the bone?

They raced up the stairs to Alma's room. Alma was standing in the doorway, looking both ways down the hall.

"50/50," mumbled Teta.

"Well, you tried," Dycedarg said. He grabbed his sister by the shoulder. "We need to get out of here."

"What's happening?" Alma demanded.

There was the clomping of feet upon the stairs at the other end of the hallway. Dycedarg hissed and gestured with his sword as though it were a conductor's baton. The runes on the sword darkened, and with another quick gesture Dycedarg flung a cloud of inky down the hall. It exploded into a jet-black fog by the opposite stairwell. She heard shouts of panic and alarm, and the repeated _thumping_ and cursing of a man falling down the stairs.

"Other way," Dycedarg said, pulling Alma back the way they'd come. Teta kept close, throwing one glance over her shoulder to look for any sign of movement from the black cloud. The Hokuten guard led the way, sword drawn.

There was a flash of sunlight on steel, and a spray of blood against the wall. The knight tumbled down the stairs.

"Damn!" roared Dycedarg, jabbing with his sword's bright blade, and an arrow of crackling blue burst from the swordpoint and exploded into the wall, so chunks of masonry hammered into the man in ragged leather standing over the dead knight. Dycedarg plunged forwards again, burying his sword in the man's chest. The man gasped and sank to the wall.

Alma was already kneeling by the fallen knight's side. Dycedarg grabbed her by the shoulder and hauled her to her feet. "Dyce!" she protested.

"There's no time!" Dycedarg roared, giving her a single withering look. He wasn't looking at the blonde, pale man charging towards him from down the hall, leading a small pack of soldiers, all with weapons drawn.

"Dyce!" Teta shouted in warning. Dycedarg turned, too late: the sword slashed, and Dycedarg collapsed backwards, clutching at a bloody wound across his chest. Teta felt that sickening disjointed feeling, the lurching unreality of a nightmare. This couldn't be happening.

"No!" Alma bellowed, lifting her hands, and a shimmering white light flowed out from her palms and formed a translucent opal-colored barrier between them and the man with the dark green cloak. The pale man cursed and started running back down the hall, leaving a single guard on the other side of the transparent light, glaring at them.

"Dyce!" Alma cried, falling to his side. Dycedarg had a gloved hand on his chest, shimmering with faint radiance: Alma put her hands over the wound, and added her light to his. The hot salty tang of blood filled the air, and bile trickled up Teta's throat.

"Run," whispered Dycedarg.

"No!" Alma said fiercely.

"Where?" Teta asked.

Whatever he might have said was drowned out by a shout of triumph from above them. Teta and Alma looked up to find soldiers with swords and spears standing at the top of the staircase, staring down at them. Teta's heart spasmed in her chest, and she jerked away from Dycedarg and Alma, her back against the liquid pressure of Alma's barrier.

"Noble bastards," whispered the man. "Noble bitches, too. What are ya good for?"

This couldn't be happening, could it? This couldn't be real. Dycedarg with blood on his chest, armed soldiers coming towards them with hate in their eyes.

Her imagination had shut down. Everything had shut down. She was frozen in shock, blank and afraid. All at once, everything was so terribly real.

And thunder sounded from above, as though a lightning bolt had struck just in front of her. White fire exploded outwards, the soldiers crumpled and screamed. She caught a glimpse of a figure in the thick of that heat—Zalbaag in his sable armor, a gleaming bastard sword in his hand, the broken bodies of the dead scattered all around him.

The pressure at Teta's back gave way. Teta fell, and was wrenched upright by powerful arms around her chest and throat, so she choked and gasped and could not breathe.

"Zal!" Alma shrieked, as the hard-eyed soldier from the other side of the barrier grabbed her and pulled her away. She struggled in his grasp, until he struck her across the face and pulled her slumped body over his shoulders.

"Let's go!" shouted the man holding Teta, heaving her over his shoulder as though she were a sack of grain. Why wasn't she fighting? Shouldn't she be fighting, like Alma? She'd been moving so quickly, why had she-

 _I didn't believe it I didn't believe it just doing what I was supposed to it's not real it's not real_

The soldier carrying Alma gave a strangled cry and threw her to the ground, kicking her in the stomach. Her mouth was covered in blood, and so was the neck of the man who'd been carrying her.

"GET UP!" howled the man holding Teta, and the bleeding soldier grabbed Alma and moved forward again, one hand firmly around her neck. She choked and wheezed and would not stop fighting. But Teta did not want to be kicked, or punched, or hurt. Why were they doing this? Why would anyone do this?

Doors burst open, and a painfully clear sky glowed blue above her, as a delicate breeze tugged at her hair. How could it be so lovely, when there was such fear in horror in her? How, when-

"Alma!" roared Zalbaag, and the man holding her collapsed, his severed head rolling from his shoulders as blood dripped down the stump of his neck, and he was so close Teta could have reached out and touched his outstretched hand but then there was the scratching of taloned feet in the dust and a pack of mounted chocobos charged by. Teta lost sight of Alma and Zalbaag, and then with a lurching start she was thrown onto the back of a bird and the Manor was already shrinking away into the distance.

"Teta!" screamed Alma, face still slick with blood. She moved forwards, but Zalbaag grabbed her by the shoulder. He was right, of course he was right, neither of them could catch up to a chocobo at a full sprint, but Teta could jump off, it wouldn't even hurt, she'd done it before for fun, and she gathered her nerve and-

And felt a sharp needle-prick against her back.

"Move and you die," whispered a terrible voice, and Teta closed her eyes and felt the nightmare weight settle in over her.


	16. Chapter 15: Brothers

[Hey! Thanks for reading! If you like what you're seeing here and want to find high-quality entertaining writing, check out my website at quickascanbe dot com. I have two-thirds of a trilogy on there, both of which are less than $5! If you like sci-fi dystopias, superheroes, ancient monsters, or young men and women trying to do the right thing in a complex and ambiguous world, both these books are right up your alley! And again, thanks for reading!]

 **Chapter 15: Brothers**

 _...of course, we cannot be sure what the Hokuten and Limberry forces might have done once they'd completed their campaign in southern Gallione, but the actions of Gregory Levigne removed any chance at a peaceful resolution. Dycedarg Beoulve had been attacked: neither his childhood friend, Prince Larg, nor his brother, Knight-Commander Zalbaag, would allow the act to go unpunished. So the Hokuten and Limberry forces blockaded the Lenalian Plateau and pushed north, to eradicate the Death Corps once and for all._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Shadows of the Lion War"_

Was this Ramza's fault?

He knew, on some level, that it couldn't possibly be. The band of soldiers who had attacked the Manor had not come out of southern Gallione. The band of soldiers who had taken Teta had nothing to do with the men and women Ramza had captured and set free. The men and women who had hurt Dycedarg and Alma had nothing in common with the ones he'd been unable to hurt, save for the fact that they paid allegiance to the same cause. Save for the fact that, while he had refused to hurt them, they had hurt his family and taken Teta.

The thoughts chased each other round and round through Ramza's bed as he sat on a stool in Dycedarg's bedroom. Not his fault. Not his fault.

"I'm fine," huffed Dycedarg, his arms crossed in front of his bare bandaged chest.

"You are not fine!" Zalbaag growled, looming over him. "You had your chest sliced open."

"It was a shallow cut," Dycedarg said, waving one had dismissively.

"It was a deep wound," Zalbaag said. "If Alma hadn't been there..." He rested a hand on Alma's shoulder. She was hunched over Dycedarg's bed, clutching at his hand. Her face was still bruised and scraped. Ramza didn't like to see her that way. He didn't like to imagine the violence that had been done to her.

And if he didn't like that, how must Delita be feeling at this moment?

"I didn't do anything," Alma whispered. "I couldn't...I didn't...Teta...!"

"Not your fault," Delita said, his voice stilted, as though each word had been pronounced separately by someone who didn't understand the meaning. He was staring straight ahead, past Dycedarg, past Alma, past Zalbaag. He was staring out to the glow of dusk through the window, as though he could see Teta somewhere out there. And Ramza felt another shock of guilt. Was this what his attempts at justice brought him? Is this what came of trying to keep his hands clean?

"They fled for the Lenalian Plateau," Zalbaag said.

"You didn't pursue, did you?" Dycedarg asked.

"I'm not risking our soldiers on a wild goose chase," Zalbaag grunted. "The Limberry forces have it cordoned off. No one's getting out that way."

"And the mountains?" Dycedarg asked.

"Nothing can get through," Zalbaag said.

"I haven't heard that before," Dycedarg replied, smiling sardonically.

"I've pulled two-thirds of the Hokuten north," Zalbaag said. "When we're done, there won't be anything left of the Death Corps."

"Where did they come from?" Delita asked, staring out the window, not looking at any of them.

"We don't-" Zalbaag began, but Dycedarg held up a forestalling hand.

"We can't say for sure," Dycedarg said. "But my best guess is that the Corps raids out of the Lenalian mountains were one giant diversion. They were veiling elite units, designed to make the war in the south as costly as possible. I suppose that includes killing me."

"They'll pay," Zalbaag whispered.

"They will," Dycedarg agreed. He squeezed Alma's hand, but he reached out with his other and grabbed Delita's shoulder. "Delita," he said. "Look at me."

Delita's dark eyes drifted away from the window. His dark eyes were wide, and clear, and almost seemed empty, like there was no thinking person behind them.

"Del," Dycedarg said. "How long have I known you? How long have I known Teta?" He squeezed his shoulder. "Do you imagine I will leave her in the clutches of these bastards?"

Delita nodded, stood up, and walked out of the room without another word. Ramza hesitated, but could not quite bring himself to follow. Not while his brother was laid up with a wounded chest.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said. "I should have been here."

"What could you have done that we didn't?" Dycedarg asked.

Ramza shook his head, remembering Miluda, remembering all the men and women he hadn't killed. Could he say for certain that he was not responsible? Could he really be sure?

"You did well, Ramza," Zalbaag said. "Every report says so. This isn't your fault."

"What do we do now?" Ramza asked.

"Nothing," Dycedarg said. "We have the Corps penned in the north. There's nowhere for them to run. Do your duty. Keep Argus safe. We'll handle the rest."

"And Teta?" Alma asked.

"I'm leading our forces," Zalbaag said. "I'll find them. I'll find her."

Ramza nodded, then rose from his seat. "Dyce, I'm sorry," he said, jerking his head out into the hallway.

"No, you're right," Dycedarg said. "See to him. Zalbaag and I must discuss the coming operation." He squeezed Alma's hand and gently lifted her from her seat. "Alma," he said. "Thank you."

Alma nodded, but didn't say anything. She left the room with Ramza, who wrapped a protective arm around his sister's shoulders.

"Teta," Alma whispered. "They took...and I couldn't...!"

"It's not your fault," Ramza said. It was Ramza's, if it was anyone's. They had attacked his brother. They had taken Teta. He had done his best to seek justice, and they had repaid him by tearing his world apart. Was this God's will? Was this part of some divine plan? Everything felt very fragile, very precarious. Ramza felt brittle, like he might break at any moment.

"I should have been a soldier," Alma said.

Ramza shook his head. "I am one," he said. "Who have I saved?"

They wandered together through the desolate halls of the Manor. The smell of blood and smoke was thick everywhere they turned—reminders of the battle that had been fought here. The sun had nearly set by the time they found Delita in the shadow-laden stables, loading heavy saddlebags upon his chocobo's sides.

"Delita," Ramza said, stepping away from Alma.

"Get away from me, Ramza," Delita said.

"What are you doing?"

"Going after her."

"What's the point-" Ramza started, and Delita was upon him, faster than Ramza would have believed possible, shoving him back against a stable door. The birds around them crooned and cried and stirred restlessly, rustling their feathers and flapping their short wings.

"What's the point?" whispered Delita, his eyes wide with fury. "What's the _point_?"

"Delita!" Alma cried.

"In getting yourself killed!" Ramza shouted, not fighting against Delita's grasp. "We have no idea where they've taken her!"

"Would that stop you if it was her?" Delita demanded, jerking his head towards Alma.

"Of course not," said a deep, cold voice. "She's a Beoulve. What's your sister again?"

Delita dropped Ramza unceremoniously to the ground and turned to face Argus, leaning against the entrance to the dusty stables.

"Look at you," Argus said. "I think this is what it looks like when a mad dog forgets its place."

"What did you say?" Delita whispered.

"You heard me."

Delita stalked closer to Argus. Argus seemed unafraid.

"She's my sister," Delita said.

"And you're a dog who needs to be put down," Argus said.

Delita struck Argus across the face with sudden force, and the chocobos exploded in frightened squawking cries. Argus collapsed against the wall, clutching at his face.

"Delita!" Ramza shouted, but Delita was already moving, stepping over Argus and out of the stables. Ramza moved to follow, and Argus grabbed him by the wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" Argus asked.

"After him."

"After what he did to you?" Argus asked. "He's just another commoner whose forgotten his place."

There was an awful hate in Argu's voice, and when Ramza looked down he found the other man's eyes were blazing.

"She's my friend," Alma whispered. "She's my friend, and she tried to save me, and-"

"As she should," Argus said. "Her place is to serve."

"You're a monster," Alma said, and rushed past Ramza, out of the stables. Ramza tried to follow her, but Argus still had a firm grip on his wrist.

"Let me go," Ramza said.

"Why?" Argus asked.

"He's my friend."

Argus shook his head. "He's your servant."

"He's my brother!" Ramza shouted.

"NO!" cried Argus, and twisted, so that Ramza lost his balance and slammed chest-first into the ground. Ramza scrambled to his feet as Argus did the same, so Argus was blocking his path, glaring into his face.

"No," repeated Argus. "Your brother sits in bed with a wound in his chest, while your so-called friend barks and growls. Look at him, Ramza. Look familiar? Like Wiegraf, eh?"

"Wiegraf-" Ramza started.

"How many men are dead, because he forgot his place?" Argus asked. "His friend killed all the Marquis' men, Ramza. Killed those commoners, too. Filled their heads with heresy and then punished them for drinking from his well. How long before your so-called friend wets his blade with _your_ blood."

"He would never," Ramza said.

"He would," Argus said. "These dogs forget their place. They think themselves the equals of their masters. Look at the chaos that comes from their perversion of the natural order! They have to be put down."

"They weren't treated fairly," Ramza said.

"Fair!" scoffed Argus. "We were born to power, Ramza, so power is ours! All your pretending and all their barking won't make it otherwise! Now we must put down good dogs or fear for our own throats! Would you give these curs the reins of power? After what they did to your brother? What they did to my-"

He broke off, shaking his head. "You're a Beoulve, Ramza," he said. "Act like it. I can't keep fixing your mistakes."

Ramza stared at the other man. He had a vague foreboding pressure against his sinuses, as though he were standing in the open while the stormclouds crackled overhead. "What do you mean?" Ramza asked.

Argus gave Ramza a withering look. "Do you really think I gave that whore a safe route?"

That whore? Who was he talking about? Did he...did he mean Miluda?

Ramza's eyes widened. That moment of precarious hard-won trust, convincing her that they didn't have to be foes just because of their different births. What had Argus done? What had _Ramza_ done?

"Argus-"

"I received the reports just before we returned," Argus said. "She met with our reserves. A small group escaped, but the rest are dead."

There was a moment of disjointed motion, as a drunken fuzz passed through Ramza's head and made everything feel distant and hazy. Argus was suddenly a lot closer, so close Ramza could see the blond bristles of a nascent beard upon his jaw. It took Ramza a moment to realize he had hauled Argus closer to him, grabbing him by the shirt.

"What did you do?" Ramza asked.

"What you were too weak to do," Argus said.

"Alma's right," Ramza said. "You're a monster."

"And you're a fool," Argus said. "You've seen what happens when you let these people go, Ramza. They spread their poison."

Ramza shoved Argus to the ground. Argus did not try to rise, but stared up at Ramza with something like pity in his eyes.

"You intend to go after the girl?" Argus asked. Ramza could barely heard the words: that drunken haze blunted every feeling save his rage. It was all he could do not to grab for the sword he still wore on his belt and cut him apart where he lay sprawled out upon the floor.

"Her name is Teta," Ramza said. "You drank with her."

"Be reasonable, Ramza," Argus said. "Your brothers will not hold back the Hokuten for the sake of one common girl."

"They're not like you," Ramza said.

"No," Argus agreed. "They're stronger still."

Ramza shook his head. His brothers were Beoulves, devoted to the cause of Service and Justice. They would not sacrifice Teta for the cause of vengeance. They wouldn't.

Would they?

"You have to become a Beoulve some day, Ramza," Argus said.

"I am a Beoulve," Ramza whispered.

"You're a child playing the part," Argus said. "Grow up."

"And you..." Ramza shook his head. "I don't have a word vile enough for you, Thadolfas."

Argus' eyes blazed with sudden fury. He rose to his feet, and the two men faced off, burning with rage. Ramza's fingers curled around the hilt of his sword.

"The heart of the Corps is Fort Zeakden, on the Rhana Strait," Argus said, through gritted teeth. "Your brother's heading north through the passes, and the Corps will fight them for every inch. If you take the road east to Fovoham through the Lenalian Plateau, you might beat the Hokuten there. I'll tell the Limberry forces to let you pass.

Argus turned to leave. It took a moment for what he'd said to penetrate the murderous fog in Ramza's head. "What?" Ramza breathed.

"You heard me," Argus said.

"Why?" Ramza asked.

"I pay my debts."

Argus was gone. Ramza was alone in the stables, with the gentle crooning and rustling of the birds all around him. Alone, with the world cracking around him. Because Miluda and her men had been slaughtered though he'd tried his best to save him, betrayed by a man Ramza had thought of as a friend. Alone, because his friend's sister had been taken by the same people Ramza had tried to save. Alone, because his every attempt to live up to his name had failed. There was nothing of justice here. He was a pretender, exactly as weak and insufficient as he had always imagined.

How could he have been fool enough to try to change the world? How could he have believed himself worthy of the name Beoulve?

He stumbled out of the stables, devoid of rage, devoid of hope, devoid of purpose.

Outside was the orange blaze of the setting sun, staining everything with fire. Delita was hunched over in the grass, sobbing: Alma stroked his hair, crying in turn, tears dripping down her bruised face. Hurt. Ramza didn't feel hurt. Ramza didn't feel anything.

He crossed to them, walking across one of the aqueducts that bubbled and burbled through the Estate. He sank into the grass beside them, and said nothing, because he didn't know what to say.

Until he heard a high, thin note.

He looked over, and found Alma with a blade of grass in her mouth, blowing as hard as she could. The high sound spread across the grounds, and Alma blew until she was red in the face, tears glistening on her eyelashes and on her cheeks. She ran out of breath and dropped the blade of grass from her lips, panting.

Delita sniffled, and pulled up his own blade of grass. He blew his deeper note, and Alma snapped her own blade back to her mouth. Her high note sounded much clearer and cleaner than Ramza's, sweet and musical, and Ramza remembered the day when Zalbaag had taught them all to play, as Dycedarg and Zalbaag laughed at the four of them fumbling clumsily with their blades of grass. His brothers and his sisters and his father.

He picked up his own blade of grass, and blew, and wished Teta was there with them.

"What are you doing!" shouted Beowulf's brash voice.

Ramza turned, and found Beowulf striding towards them, leading Violet by the reins. He was not alone: Reis walked at his side, in a loose martial outfit with long sleeves and trouser legs.

"We have to hurry!" Beowulf said. "They've already got a lead!"

Delita rose to his feet. "Beowulf-" he started.

"I figure I need a third desertion charge," Beowulf said. "Complete the set."

"And obviously I can't let him go by himself," Reis said. "He's helpless without me."

"The Templars are just letting you go?" Alma asked.

"I explained the situation to Bishop Bremondt," Reis said. "He's a good man."

"I can't ask you-" Delita said.

"You don't have to," Beowulf said. "We've got to rescue a damsel from distress. This is hero's work. I'll let you come along anyways."

Delita grabbed Beowulf around the neck and hugged him tight. Beowulf clapped him on the back, looking uncomfortable. Delita released him and turned around, his face still wet with tears.

"You're right," Delita said. "I don't-"

"Fort Zeakden," Ramza said. "If go by way of the Fovoham Plains, we might beat the Hokuten there."

Delita's eyes widened. "How-"

"Does it matter?" Ramza asked.

Delita hesitated, then shook his head. "No," he said. "But you don't have to-"

"She's my sister," Ramza said. "And you're my brother."

Delita closed his eyes and nodded. "Thank you," he whispered.

He moved back to the stables. Ramza turned to his sister. "Alma-" he began.

"Find her," Alma said. "Bring her back."

"I will," Ramza said.

He was no Beoulve. He had no justice, no resolve, no achievements to his name and no divine will to guide him. But his brother needed him. His sister needed him. And he would not stand idly by.

He headed to the stables.


	17. Chapter 16: Violence

**Chapter 16: Violence**

They rode without rest through the day and through the night. Teta was bound with rough rope that chafed her wrists, and any movement her captors didn't like was met with the delicate pricking of that needle-sharp knife. She couldn't stop thinking about what that knife would feel like inside her, spilling her blood and guts into the earth. What would dying feel like?

They rode without rest, without cease, and Teta was slung like a saddlebag across the creature's back, her ribs aching with every jolt and jostle in the road, her nose filled with the thick sweaty smell of the animal. The perfect weather continued through the day and then gradually cooled after sunset, but Teta's torn dress was not made for such cool. She shivered, and her captor pricked her with the knife again. "Don't move," he whispered.

She didn't move. She didn't want to die.

She must have slept at some point, though she could not imagine how. One moment she was staring out into the bleak night, watching an indifferent sky alive with blazing stars: the next, her side exploded in pain as she hit the ground. She cried out, her bladder aching so it felt like it might burst at any moment, but she couldn't do that, she _wouldn't_ do that, she was bound and captive and she did not know what these people would do to her, if she would be raped or stabbed or a thousand other horrors that bubbled in the back of her mind but she would not piss herself. She was a woman, she was in control, she wouldn't-

"Fuckin' nobles," hissed a deep voice, and a rough hand grabbed her by the hair and hauled her to her feet. She gasped as her scalp burned, barely seeing the bearded, barrel-chested man in front of her. His other hand pulled at the skirt of her dress.

"What are you doing, Foxe?" asked the calm voice who had threatened her with the so-sharp knife.

"Bitch needs to pay," said the man in front of her, glaring over her shoulder.

"She will, Foxe," said the calm voice. "They all will. But we need her alive and whole."

"She'll stay whole," grunted the man. "Just be a little sore."

"No."

"You don't give me orders, Gregory!" spat the bearded man.

"Yes I do."

The bearded man glared over her, then shoved her backwards. Someone caught her, turned around so she was staring at the cold blonde man who'd slashed at Dycedarg and cursed at them from behind Alma's barrier. Gregory?

"I have to pee," Teta said.

"I don't care," Gregory said, and shoved her to the ground. She landed hard, barely able to keep her balance, jostling her full bladder. She bit her lip against the pain and the pressure.

For a moment, she almost begged. "Please," she would have said. "Please, I have to, don't make me do this, please." And begging worked, sometimes: give someone a chance to be magnanimous, make it clear you are entirely in their hands. But that depended on the person in question. Sometimes, begging just made them crueler.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, not looking at him. "I just...I don't want to...I..."

Tears coming, and that was too much weakness so she swallowed them down. She had to make him feel powerful, but if she seemed out of control herself he . "I don't want to piss myself," she said. "And I don't want to stink up you or...or one of the birds, but I can't go without you cutting me loose, I can't-!"

She did not look up at him, did not raise beseeching eyes to his face. It was better this way. Appeal to self-interest while looking weak. She'd played this game before at the Academy. She'd just never played it for such high stakes.

"Alright," Gregory grunted. He drew that so-sharp knife and slit her bonds in one fluid motion. "You got one minute," Gregory said. "And if you try to run-"

"I won't," she said. "Thank you."

She rose to her feet and stumbled a little ways away. His eyes were still on her, but she understood the stakes. It was go now or be hauled back atop that bird, and while she didn't want him watching she needed to relieve this pressure against her waist. It was the smallest of victories, but it was a victory.

She pulled down her underwear and squatted in the grass, her eyes searching for any sign of the bearded man or anyone else who might threaten her. Her mind was racing.

She hadn't fought, like Alma had fought. But Alma's fighting hadn't saved her: Zalbaag had. All Alma's fighting had done had gotten her beaten before Zalbaag had rescued her. There were knives and swords all around, and Teta had no magic and no sword, she had nothing with which she could save herself. This wasn't some story about the commoner girl who fought her way free through ingenuity. If she was to survive, she would do so by clinging tenaciously to life and never giving them her captors a reason to hurt her.

Right now, they thought she was a noble. These men might hate nobles, but they weren't stupid. A noblewoman could buy them freedom. A commoner girl—a commoner girl who _sympathized_ with nobles—would be disposable. They'd kill her, and they'd take their time.

Stay alive. Stay intact. Survive.

She rose from the grass and pulled up her underwear. She walked back, her head bowed. "Thank you," she whispered.

"Who are you?" Gregory asked.

Teta swallowed, tried to think of the names of other nobles at the Academy, anyone this man might have heard of, tried to think of a compelling lie.

"Alma," she said. "Alma Beoulve."

"Beoulve, huh?" Gregory said. "Your brother's the one who didn't pay us."

Alma said nothing. She kept her eyes on the ground.

"Hands," Gregory said, with a fresh length of rope in his fingers.

Teta swallowed, warred with herself, and pushed her hands forwards. As Gregory moved towards her, she gambled. "Where would I go?" she asked.

Gregory stopped and looked at her. She couldn't see his face in the dark.

"I can't run anywhere," Teta said. "I haven't tried."

"So what?" he asked.

"Do you really need...?"

Having her hands free might not mean much, but what was the point of adding chafed wrists and aching arms to all her other problems if she could avoid it? Besides, free hands could help her in other ways. If there was an opportunity she could seize, she'd do it best with her hands free. And she could protect herself from walls and steady herself during their ride.

Gregory lowered his hands. "You sit in front of me," he said. "You do anything I don't like, and I leave you alone with Foxe as long as he likes."

The images flashed in Teta's mind, half-heard horror stories whispered in the dormitories of the Preparatory Academy and the memories of Foxe's rough hands on her. She nodded, though her throat felt tight and dry.

"We're moving out!" shouted Gregory.

They rode through the night, as the stars blazed pitilessly overhead and the half-moon shed ghostly light over the Plains. Gregory's arms were around her, firmly on the reins of his bird so there was nowhere for her to go.

Teta must have slept again at some point, because when she came to the world was brighter, the stars faded away behind a lightening sky. The Lenalian mountains were shadows on the horizon, but growing larger and larger with every passing moment. The rolling green hills of the Mandalia Plains slowly gave way to shale slopes with loose shrubs clinging tenaciously to life.

And it was still too gorgeous. A gentle breeze rolled out of the north, mingling nicely with the warm sun so high above. The air got crisper and cleaner as they started rising in elevation. It burned a little in her nostrils. At least it had been raining on the day her parents had died. How could it be so gorgeous, when she was so afraid?

The climbed a winding switchback track that wove higher and higher between two tall speaks. The sun was setting in a blaze of orange fire by the time they finished their long ascent and reached the Lenalian Plateau—a wide expanse of flatlands the mirror of the ascent behind them, shale and dirt and scrub grass spreading out between the mountains. In the far distance, she could make out the lush green expanse of the fertile Fovoham Plains.

So much stark natural beauty. So pitiless compared to the ragged band of soldiers camped across the Plateua men and women in bloody bandages shuddering against the oncoming cold as the wind howled overhead.

"Gregory!" shouted a deep, commanding woman's voice. Teta turned to stare at the brown-haired woman striding towards them, with a dark green cloak on her shoulders and a red-headed woman at her side.

"Miluda!" Gregory called, dropping from the back of his bird and pulling Teta down with him.

"Who's this?" Miluda asked, her eyes narrowing at Teta.

"Alma Beoulve," Gregory said.

A flash of fire, terrible rage and hate, in Miluda's eyes. Teta took an involuntary step backwards. "Beoulve?" Miluda repeated, her hand resting against the hilt of the sword she wore on her hip.

"Easy," Gregory said, holding out a forestalling hand. "We can't hurt her. We need her."

"Need...?" Miluda turned her glare on Gregory. "You thinking of following Gustav's path, Greg?"

"No," Gregory said. "I don't want a ransom. But as long as we've got her, her brothers can't afford to hurt us. We can keep the north until we figure out what the hell we're going to do."

Miluda glared into his face for a few more seconds, then shook her head. "This isn't what we do," she said.

"I know," Gregory said. "But right now, it's what we _have_ to do."

Miluda shook her head. "What are you doing here, Gregory?"

"We've been riding for two days," Gregory said. "We need help."

Miluda laughed. It was a harsh, terrible sound, like a cough, like breaking glass. "Look around, Greg. Do you think we have anything to give?"

Gregory stiffened—Teta saw it, his back going rigid—but then the moment passed and he continued, "We just need to rest, Miluda."

"Plenty of room to rest," Miluda said. "A whole plain, for the dead and the broken."

Teta couldn't see Gregory's face, and she didn't know the man very well. But there seemed something a little slumped and defeated about his back.

When he turned to face them, however, his face was calm. Almost confident.

"Scrounge up what you can," he said. "Help if you need to, but get some rest. We're heading for Zeakden at dawn."

"What do we do with her, Greg?" asked one of the soldiers, gesturing towards Teta.

"I'll take care of your prisoner," Miluda said. "Radia. Show these boys around."

The men moved out into the field, following the red-headed woman—Radia, apparently. pulling their chocobos with them and leaving Teta alone with Miluda. As the orange blaze of dusk gave way to cool evening shadows, she folded her arms around her body, looking in every direction at once. How many men were there like Foxe, eager to make her pay however they could? How would she be safe, without Gregory to stop them? Completely in the care of this woman who had looked her with such fierce and furious hate?

"Follow me," Miluda said, and walked into the thicket of tents. Teta hesitated, then stumbled after—she couldn't give her captors any reason to hurt her. Strange, awful smells besieged her from all times—the smell of rot, and shit, and blood, thick and cloying and salty. Her mouth felt thick with saliva, and her stomach lurched and spasmed. She she would have vomited, if she'd had anything to eat.

And there were the noises, too. The wordless moans and groans, the animal whimpers, the frantic whispered prayers interrupted by pained cries. The thick, aching words with tears behind every syllable as dying souls struggle to share their last message with the world.

It wouldn't be so bad, if she hadn't heard and smelled and seen this all before. If it didn't conjure images of the Plague Camps, where the desperate and the ill flocked in droves so that the Healers might tend to them. Those figures in their red-and-white robes amidst a sea of ragged, dying souls, choking and coughing and wheezing and breaking as their bodies slowly suffocated under the weight of their disease. If this place wasn't so like the place where haer parents had died.

But these people weren't dying of disease, were they? They were dying because of what had been done to them by other men. How could people do this to each other?

"Beoulve."

The word was flat and carried all the acidic impact of a curse. Teta froze, the skin on her neck crawling. For a moment, she almost looked around to see if there was a Beoulve nearby. Before she remembered what she'd said. Before she remembered who she was supposed to be.

She turned slowly to see Miluda standing at the mouth of a small tent. She was watching Teta, but her face was masked by the gathering shadows.

"Not gonna answer me, Beoulve?" she asked. "Won't deign to speak with a commoner?"

"No, I-" Teta started.

"Oh, she admits it!" Miluda said. "An honest noble! That's a rare thing. Not like your brother." She cocked her head. "Ramza _is_ your brother, isn't he?"

How much did this woman know about the Beoulves? Did she know Alma was Ramza's sister? Would Teta be better off confirming or denying?

"See all these people?" Miluda asked. "Hear'em? Smell'em? Your brother did that, Beoulve."

"Ramza wouldn't do that," Teta said.

She snapped a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. She hadn't meant to say it. She hadn't even thought about it. But Ramza wasn't like Delita. Hell, Ramza wasn't even like Alma. He always looked just as uneasy as Teta felt, and when they'd drunk their stolen wine in Ramza's room she'd learned that he was even trying to avoid killing on the battlefield. How could he have hurt all these people?

"No?" Miluda asked. "Come here."

Teta hesitated, staring at the woman, looking around as though there might be help nearby. But how could there be? She was alone here. More alone than she'd been in her entire life.

She took a few hesitant steps forwards. Miluda turned away from her, back to the entrance of the tent. She had a lighting rod in hand, glowing with runes at the tip. She held it high, so it cast a little cloud of illumination around them. At the very edge of their circle of light, a ways inside the tent, was a blond-haired woman, breathing in a choked, crackling wheeze.

"Your brother did that, Beoulve."

Teta stared at the blonde woman, transfixed by the lines of pain in her face and in the shadows of other injuries concealed by the thin blanket spread over her.

"What did he do?" Teta whispered.

"Lied," hissed Miluda. "Told us we could be safe and led us right into danger. Made me..."

Miluda didn't finish. She trailed off, staring at the woman in the tent.

"She held them back, while we escaped," Miluda said. "I...I couldn't leave her, but by the time I got back, they'd already..."

The hand holding the lighting rod slowly drifted towards the ground. Teta barely noticed: she was trying to make sense of what she was seeing, smelling, hearing. She longed for the return of that nightmare vertigo: she wanted this to feel surreal.

"How much are you going to take from me?" asked Miluda.

Rough hands grabbed her by the shoulders and spun her around. Rough hands seized her by the throat, thumbs pressing against Teta's windpipe. The air went out of Teta's world. She choked in Miluda's wild-eyed grasp, clawed at the hands that were so rough against her aching neck. The world was turning darker and darker, and Teta's last breaths were wheezing whispers, and all she could think was that she was going to die, die like her parents, like Alma's parents, killed, and there was nothing she could do for all her struggles Miluda was still glaring into her eyes and Teta had never seen such awful hate in anyone's eyes, how could anyone hate the way Miluda hated, how could anyone do this, how could Teta be about to die when there was so much life to live, how-

"Captain!" someone cried. "No!"

Miluda was wrenched backwards, and Teta spilled into the dust. She looked up to see Miluda facing off with the red-haired woman who'd been at Miluda's side earlier.

"Out of my way, Radia," Miluda growled.

"No, Captain."

"She's a Beoulve. She did this to us."

"She didn't do anything to us," Radia said. "She was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"That didn't stop them from hurting Emilie!" shouted Miluda. "That didn't-"

"We're better than them!" Radia yelled.

A moment's taut silence.

"Then why are we losing?" Miluda asked.

She moved farther into the tent and knelt by the blonde woman's side. Radia grabbed Teta by the shoulders and pulled her firmly to her feet, leading her away.

"Thank you," Teta whispered.

Radia flinched. "Please, don't. What Ramza did to us was..." She shook her head. "I won't let her kill you," she said. "But I don't want to hear you..."

Violence, fear, desperation, and weariness mingled freely in the woman's voice, giving her a flat, dangerous lilt. Teta's throat still ached. Her chest and back were scraped and bruised from the falls she'd taken over the past several days. She needed to keep her mouth shut. She needed to stay alive.

"What did he do?" Teta asked, because as much as she needed to survive she also needed to know why Miluda's hands had been around her neck, why there had been such hate in Miluda's eyes and in Radia's why, why there was a blonde-haired woman wheezing and dying in a tent far away, and what Ramza had to do with any of this that made her supposed sister such a target.

"Convinced us there was safe passage north," Radia said. "Told me he didn't want anyone to die, and then he let us..." She shook her head. "How can anyone lie like that?"

Had Ramza lied? Had he done that?

They reached a small tent in the center of camp. Radia held the flap open. "You'll be safe here," Radia said. "I guarantee it."

Teta crawled inside, scraping her knees against stones and dirt. Radia sat cross-legged at the tent's entrance, her sword across her lap.

"He wouldn't do that," Teta said.

"He did," Radia replied.

"I don't know what happened," Teta said. "I wasn't there. But..."

But she remembered the last time she'd seen Ramza, drinking wine in Ramza's room, as Delita had jibed and jested. Ramza, refusing to kill anyone, risking life and limb because it was the only way he could make sense of this war.

"He doesn't kill," Teta said.

"He doesn't...what?" Radia shook her head. "He's a soldier."

"I know," Teta said. "And he hasn't killed anyone."

"You're lying," Radia said.

Teta said nothing.

"Would you do something like that?" Radia asked, as the silence stretched.

"No," Teta said.

"Didn't think so," Radia huffed.

"I wouldn't fight at all," Teta said.

"Why not?" Radia asked.

I don't believe in violence, Teta wanted to say, but that was foolish and naive, the sort of thing a child-hero says in the stories you tell to pretend the world makes sense. And the other problem was that she was not Alma Beoulve, so how did she sound like her without giving herself away? Was it safer to be Teta, or Alma?

Or safer to stick to the common ground between them?

"My parents are dead," Teta said. "Choking Plague killed them both. And a lot of other people, too. There were camps like this all over Ivalice."

Radia snorted. "Balbanes Beoulve died in a tent, huh?"

"No," Teta said. "But my mom, she..."

Teta remembered Alma, tears in her eyes as she talked about clutching at her mother's cold hand, begging her to wake up. And Teta remembered her own mom in one of the Church's tents, Delita crying out for a Healer who wouldn't come, Teta stroking her mother's damp forehead, holding her father's calloused hand. She remembered the smell, of rot and sweat and bile and thick mucus, the strangled breaths and wheezing, the shit and piss and blood. So very much like this hopeless camp.

"My mom wasn't noble," Teta said. "She died alone."

Teta stared at the wall of the tent. From the corner of her eye, she could see that Radia wasn't looking at her.

"So what?" Radia asked.

"So..." Teta closed her eyes. "So that happened. So people starved, and people got sick, and people died. Why do we have to hurt each other, too?"

"Because sometimes it's the only way," Radia said.

"To do what?" Teta asked.

"To make them listen," Radia said.

Teta shook her head. "Dead men don't listen."

"They weren't listening when they were alive, either," Radia said. "It was a King of Ivalice who got us into this war, him and all his noble friends. They wanted power, and they bit off more than they could chew, and they kept fighting. They let everyone else bear their burdens, and we did it because we love this kingdom, and they wouldn't even pay us."

Teta looked back towards Radia. She was an impressive-looking woman, wiry beneath her leather armor, perfectly at ease with the sword in her hand. Her dark eyes blazed from her smooth pale face. She hardly looked older than Teta.

"You didn't fight in the war," Teta said. "Look at you."

Radia flushed. "I...they...!"

"You weren't wronged," Teta said. "Were you?"

"What would you know, Beoulve?" snarled Radia.

"What would you know, Radia?" Teta asked.

She was surprised at her own venom, her own courage. But perhaps it was just that she felt safe here. She didn't feel afraid of Radia. Something about the woman set her at ease. She reminded Teta of Alma, and Ramza, and Delita.

"The things this kingdom did..." Radia shook her head. "They wanted justice, and they needed help."

"So you killed people," Teta said.

"I did," Radia said. "Because sometimes that's the only thing you can do."

"I don't believe that," Teta said.

Radia shrugged. "You don't have to believe me," she said. "You saw this place. Look how we've treated you. Look how your people treated Emilie."

Teta closed her eyes, feeling the weight of the night, the aching of her throat where Miluda had grabbed her, remembering the broken wheezing woman in the tent, Foxe's rough hands pulling at the hem of her dress. "I'm sorry," she said.

"It's not your fault," Radia said.

No, it wasn't. Just a vicious chain of violence, and no end in sight. What could Teta do now, except try to survive?

She must have slept at some point, because she was awoken, aching and spasming, by a gentle shaking on her shoulder.

"You're leaving," Radia said.

Teta crawled out of the tent and into the dawning light. The camp was dissolving, the bandaged, cursing, crying wounded staggering north and west. A few scattered tents remained, their occupants prone upon their backs. Teta thought one of them had the blonde woman inside of it.

In the distance, she could make out Gregory and Miluda. Radia walked towards them. Teta hesitated, then followed.

"Why did you help me?" Teta asked, her mind alert again, wary of all the hostility and danger that surrounded her.

"We're better than the nobles," Radia said. "We have to act like it."

They reached Miluda and Gregory. Miluda did not look at Teta.

"It's cold in Zeakden," Gregory said.

"There's nowhere else to go," Miluda said. "We'll hold the pass as long as we can."

"They won't come," Gregory said. "It's too long a ride."

"They'll come," Miluda said. "They can't afford not to. You're taking the bitch?"

Gregory glanced at Teta. Teta felt a creeping, shameful weakness all along her skin.

"We have to," Gregory said.

"You don't," Radia said.

"Graffy will decide," Miluda said.

"Captain!" Radia exclaimed.

"It's not my call to make," Miluda said. "And she may have brought him this far." At last, Miluda turned those heavy eyes on Teta. Teta flinched, remembering how they had glared into her face while thumbs had pressed against her windpipe, choking her just like the disease that had killed her parents.

Punch! She heard it before she felt it, the fist hitting her stomach, wheezing before she realized she was in pain, a knot of emptiness filling her chest with nauseous fumes. She sank to here knees, gasping, and then Miluda grabbed her by the hair and pulled her upright by her burning scalp.

"Captain!" Radia shouted.

"I promised your brother I'd kill his family if he betrayed me," Miluda whispered. "If I see you again, Beoulve, I'll keep my word."

She shoved Teta towards Gregory, who held her upright and brought her staggering back to his chocobo as the world danced around her, stars in her vision, her breath coming in squeaking squeals. So much pain, so much terror, so much violence. And what was the point of it? Why...?

The questions hurt. The lies hurt. The truth would hurt. She was caught in a bramble of thorns, with every movement tearing at her, one way or another. She had to survive. She had to. No matter how she hurt.

She did not want to die here.


	18. Chapter 17: In This Hopeless Place

**Chapter 17: In This Hopeless Place**

When Wiegraf and Miluda had forged their band of commoners with dreams of glory, Miluda had commanded some forty Valkyries, pooling all their knowledge between them, training twice as long as any of the other sections of the Corps, refining their skills and strengths until they were one of the deadliest units on either side of the 50 Years' War. As the sun rose the day after Gregory had ridden north, Miluda commanded only six, and one of them was dying.

She stood at the edge of the plateau, staring down the way they'd come. The plateau was one of the easiest paths into Fovoham—and, therein, to sneak behind the Lenalian Mountains and take the Corps forts from behind—but then, easy was a relative term. It was a long, unfriendly climb northeast of Dorter, thick with shale and pebbles sloping down into the lower regions of Gallione.

But it was not the climb that had cost her. It was the nobles and their puppets. Just as it had been all along.

She'd known they were doomed the moment her sword and Wiegraf's had slipped through Gustav's chest. No, even _that_ wasn't true: she'd known they were doomed the moment Gustav had betrayed their cause.

Oh, Gustav. So bitter and forlorn when he'd come to them. He couldn't have known how frail he looked. His soul was brittle. He'd been pushed to extremes, and he was looking for salvation. Their righteous struggle had reforged him, so he stood straight and his eyes looked almost as fervent as Wiegraf's. In Gustav's transformation she'd seen the hope in their cause. And in his fall...

He'd had to die. She knew that. They hadn't made that decision easily. They'd all done things they regretted during the course of the War, and necessity had forced Gustav's hand more than most. There had been rumors coming out of Dorter for months, but Gustav had worked behind enemy lines before, and Wiegraf and Miluda trusted him. When they heard reports of him driving out rival criminal syndicates and seizing the property of merchants, they had to believe he was acting in their best interest. They had to believe...

But then came the message, smuggled out with the latest shipment of supplies. Of what Gustav had done, to the people who worked for him and to the people he was supposed to be protecting. Of what he might still do. And while they fretted and worried and argued, the Marquis had been taken.

To bring an army against Gustav might have destroyed the Corps, and would have advertised their weakness to all of Gallione besides. So Wiegraf had left Gregory in command to the north and Miluda had trusted in her Valkyries to hold the south, and they had gone together to put an end to the old friend who sullied the name of their cause.

They hadn't been the only ones chasing after Gustav and the Marquis, either. There had been a Beoulve on the case. A Beoulve Miluda had made the mistake of trusting.

"Captain," Radia called. Miluda did not turn to look at her: she could just make out the red-headed figure from the corner of her eye. Radia was young and new to the cause, but damn useful. Her father was a former military commander of uncommon talents, and he had taught many of his techniques to his daughter. There was a time Miluda had envisioned a whole unit of such women, untouchable and invincible.

There was a time Miluda had envisioned a future that had hope.

She'd still had hope just a few weeks ago. Wiegraf and Miluda, blades wet with the blood of the men and women who'd walked along Gustav's monstrous path, had fled north from the Cellar, trusting in the baking heat and inhospitable desert to guard them from pursuit. They'd already set up a tent in the lea of a dune to the north the previous night, certain that Gustav's men would never see them coming.

One living creature was waiting for them—a lean, muscular bird with sun-gold feathers and intelligent orange eyes. Wiegraf ran his hand over Boco's beak, and the bird crooned softly into his hand. They had found Boco's egg in occupied Limberry, in the clutch of an Ordallian Duke's prized racing chocobo.

"We should keep watch," Miluda said.

"Boco will let us know if anyone's coming, won't you?" Wiegraf said. The bird chirruped, and almost seemed to nod. So they crawled into their tent, and rested their tired bodies in the baking shade.

"Are you alright?" she asked Wiegraf. Without a Ydoran sword and proper microrunes, the Bursting Blade was a dangerous technique. The first time Wiegraf had tried to use it, he had been laid up in bed for two days, practically immobile. Now he'd used it three times in the space of an hour.

"I will be," Wiegraf said, though he no longer tried to mask the trembling in his hands and voice. " _We_ will be."

Miluda nodded. The look of disbelief in Gustav's eyes flashed through her mind, and she almost smiled. What did he think was between them, that would stay her blade when he'd become something so monstrous?

"What now?" she asked.

"Hard to say," Wiegraf admitted. "Limberry's certain to add their forces to the Hokuten now. Honor requires it."

"And everyone will forget we let him go," she said.

"We had to," Wiegraf said.

"Why?" Miluda asked. "We could have weakened Limberry."

"We would have weakened Limberry in the long-term," Wiegraf said. "In the short-term, we'd have brought every man and woman who can carry a blade howling for our blood. Better to face an honor-bound army than the hate of all Ivalice. If the people are not with us, we have nothing."

"But are the people with us, Graffy?"

"They will be," Wiegraf said. "So long as we are better than the highborn and their ilk."

"Is that all it takes?" Miluda asked.

"We give them an alternative," Wiegraf said. "Just like we did during the War. We keep their interests close to our hearts. We serve justice, not ourselves."

"Not like Gustav," Miluda said.

"Exactly."

It was not hard to be better than the highborn, was it? It wasn't hard to be better than the men and women who let the young, the weak, and the feeble starve and suffer so they could live in their accustomed comfort. They had made them bear the brunt of the fighting, and now they made them bear the cost of the peace. They took and they took and they never gave anything back. And if you dared to fight?

They had shown Emilie what kind of creatures they were.

"How is she?" Miluda asked, staring down the long climb up to the plateau.

Radia stepped closer. Miluda turned, and saw the tears in Radia's eyes. Her heart stopped as glaciers oozed through her veins.

No. Not Emilie, who had been with her from the beginning. Emilie, dour and steadfast and resilient, not the strongest or the fastest but the most enduring, able to march farther under heavier loads, leap into battle after a fifteen mile march. Emilie, who with a wounded leg had held back twenty men so that Miluda could lead the survivors to safety.

Oh God, that battle. It was as bad as anything Miluda had seen during the war. One moment, they were following the river north, wary for any sign of the enemy. They had climbed the foothills and found a camp of Limberry soldiers, one among many, and they had come with their lances and their axes and their arrows, they had come upon the backs of chocobos, they had slashed and stabbed and let their arrows fly, and Miluda and her Valkries and every man and woman that could hold a weapon fought for all they were worth but they were a scattered broken company, a straggling line, and this was a fresh and fearsome army.

So many dead. So many wounded. All because of that wretched Beoulve. Ramza, who had spoken of justice and sent her men into the slaughter.

And she had believed him! She had believed him, because what hope was there?

The night after that first meeting—the night after young Ramza had pleaded with them to return to Igros, to try and broker some pretense of peace that would likely have been a public execution—Miluda and Wiegraf headed north towards the Plateau, with Boco loaded with their gear.

"We can't beat both armies, Graffy," Miluda said, as the stars began to shine overhead.

"I know," Wiegraf said.

Miluda swallowed. What had it all been for? Why this mad mission to kill Gutav and his criminal followers, if the Corps was to die today?

"But we don't have to beat them," Wiegraf said.

She looked over. Wiegraf's eyes were blazing with the righteous fire that had made him such a fearsome leader, on and off the battlefield.

"Ondoria gets sicker by the day," Wiegraf said. "And the Marquis' like to side with Goltanna. They fought the Ordallians together. The best Larg can hope for is that they stay neutral."

"How does that help us?" Miluda asked.

"We can't beat the Hokuten," Wiegraf said. "But we _can_ wound'em bad enough that the Nanten could finish'em off."

"Is that the best we can hope for?" Miluda asked. "Making sure someone else kills our enemies after we're dead?"

"If the world is better for my death, I'll pay that price," Wiegraf said. Miluda shook her head: she did not want to lose her brother, who had fenced with her using sticks behind their parent's inn, who had believed in her and her Valkyries and given them all the support they needed.

"But I don't intend to die anytime soon, Milly," he continued. "Dycedarg's a scheming cunt, but at least he's clever. He won't risk the Hokuten with war on the horizon. No, the _real_ problem is Limberry. They owe a debt of honor, and their forces are relatively fresh. Once they link up with the Hokuten..."

Miluda considered for a long time. She felt shaky, hollow, and tired. She'd been fighting for so long. She'd killed Gustav, who had once been an example of what their cause could achieve, who had shared her bed. And there were so many others who'd died over the years. She didn't want to lose anymore.

"We need to hit them now, while they're weak," Miluda said.  
"We need to move out of southern Gallione," Wiegraf said.

"We can't do both, can we?" Miluda asked. "Not before Limberry..."

"We can," Wiegraf said. "If we draw their attention."

He swung up onto Boco in one fluid motion, and looked down at Miluda. "Grab your gear," he ordered, and Miluda did so at once, shouldering her pack and adjusting her scabbard.

"You know where all our southeast units are, yes?" Wiegraf asked.

"I do," she said.

"Good," Wiegraf said. "Gather the Valkyries, and send word to everyone. Hit any Hokuten units nearby and retreat south. You choose the destination, but get an army together. It's important."

"They'll be slaughtered," Miluda said. "None of the smaller units can face full Hokuten brigades."

"They won't have to," Wiegraf said. "I'm sending units into Igros."

"You're..." Miluda gaped at him.

Wiegraf nodded. "If I start riding now, I can draw their attention and their forces. You hit the rest of their garrisons and gather a god damn army, and you punch north before Limberry can link up with. Send any wounded farther north and hold the Plateau. If you-"

"Go!" Miluda shouted, smacking Boco on the rump, and the bird squawked and took off at a staggering gallop, and Wiegraf yelped, clinging on for dear life.

"You bitch!" he shouted.

"I know the plan!" she shouted back. "Stay alive, asshole!"

"You too!"

He was pounding up into the foothills and Miluda was heading south, because she could see the plan now. Wiegraf was on a racing bird, moving by himself. It would take awhile for messengers to reach Limberry, and for even preliminary maneuvers to begin. Wiegraf could reach Zeakden, and Gregory had been training units to cross the Lenalian mountains north of Igros, both mounted and on foot. The sudden threat to their capital would draw the Hokuten away from the south, and if Miluda acted quickly she could bring a whole damn army north. They would hold narrow chokepoints across north Gallione, safe from any attack. They could survive and endure, and wait for their chance to strike.

And now Emilie was dead.

"How'd it happen?" Miluda asked, staring into Radia's tear-filled eyes

Radia shook her head. "I don't know, Captain," she whispered. "There was a lot of damage."

Miluda knew that. Miluda had seen it. Unable to bear the thought of her friend, she and the last of the Valkyries had moved down the pass under cover of night. There was no plan to figure out which of the enemy camps held Emilie, but there was no need for one. Emilie's screams filled the night.

There were 34 men in that camp. Six in the tent where Emilie had been tied down. None of them lived to see the dawn, but that couldn't save Emilie, shredded and bloody and broken. There were no healers in the ranks of the Corps.

"Was she asleep?" Miluda asked.

Radia nodded. Miluda wasn't sure if that was better or worse. Free of pain, but the idea of that marvelous warrior woman dying with her eyes closed rankled. She should have died on her feet, fighting for her cause. The highborn and their puppets hadn't even deigned to give her that much dignity. Instead...

No hope. It was taken from them, over and over. Just as it had been at the war's end, when their dreams of rising by virtue of their talent and valor had been dashed. Just as it had been when everything had fallen apart weeks ago.

Wiegraf had launched his raids from the north, and Miluda and her Valkyries had hurried across the south. It was hard to say exactly how many soldiers the Corps had these days: Gustav's men had functioned like a criminal syndicate in Dorter, whereas the bulk of their veterans at Zeakden functioned more like a traditional army. Southern Gallione was riddled with small cells of varying sizes, usually commanded by one of the veterans of the war. These soldiers recruited at their leisure: some were essentially bandits now, whereas others commanded small, disciplined units. Gustav would have known what they had, but there hadn't exactly been time for a debriefing before they'd killed him.

The plan was to leave skeleton crews at key locations to occupy any Hokuten garrisons while consolidating their forces for the big push north, but that plan failed almost immediately. The Hokuten were nowhere near as weak as the were supposed to be, even after the retreat to fortify Igros. It took Miluda sometime to figure out why: some kind of Limberry/Hokuten unit was already in Igros, and had responded almost as soon as the raids had come down through the mountains. As a result, she had to leave more forces behind in order to keep the Hokuten occupied, and some units—particularly in eastern Gallione—she never reached at all.

She had known where she was going to consolidate her forces from the outset. Before Gustav had gone rogue, Miluda has occupied an old fortress in the southern swamps in order to protect the wounded members of the Corps. The idea had been to bring the full strength of the Corps there, but then the forces of Limberry had moved in. Everything was falling apart. There was no chance of punching north. She faced an impossible choice: either abandon the wounded and hope some hundred men could force their way through two enemy armies, or prepare for a last stand.

And then there was a Beoulve.

She remembered that confrontation. She remembered Emilie, standing tall at her side, and Radia, using her powers to disarm that arrogant bastard before he'd had time to loose his arrow. And she remembered the sincerity in Ramza's eyes. She hadn't wanted to listen, exactly, but what choice did she have? And besides...

It was hope, when she was starting to feel hopeless.

"Human, just like me," he'd said. And what kind of monsters did this to their fellow humans? Sent them headlong into danger with dozens of wounded soldiers, slaughtered and tortured for the crime of dreaming of equality?

He had told her he dreamed of justice. But look where his lofty words had led. What fresh evil had he planned for them in Igros? What tortures would have been inflicted upon them, in the name of noble justice? What...

Lost in thoughts of bloodshed and hopelessness, lost in thoughts of what had been done to Emilie, what might yet be done to her and what few Valkyries remained, she almost didn't see the chocobos climbing slowly up the pass. Four of them, with the same number of riders. A blonde head she recognized the moment she saw it. A purple chocobo she'd last seen far to the south.

Her throat went dry. Again she saw that brunette Beoulve with the wide terrified eyes, her shaking throat beneath her thumbs, struggling for breath. Sister to her betrayer.

"Beoulve," she croaked, and then louder, "BEOULVE!"

Radia tensed at her side.

Ramza stopped well down the winding rocky switchback, at a place where the path widened just a little. He stared up at her.

"Miluda, I-" he started.

"Shut your fucking mouth!" she cried. "I won't listen to anymore of your lies!"

"Please!" shouted the other one, with reddish-brown hair. "My sister-!"

Miluda stared at him. She stared at the Beoulve. She looked at Radia, whose eyes were wide.

"Your sister," she said, her voice low. " _Your_ sister."

There were only four Beoulve children. Miluda had known the names of Dycedarg and Zalbaag, of course—how could she fail to learn the names of her enemies?—and she had added Ramza's name to that ghastly list. She had seen the fourth. Had tried to _kill_ the fourth. But this young man could not be Zalbaag or Dycedarg, so who the hell was he? And if he wasn't a Beoulve, who the hell was the woman they'd had in their camp?

"Who are you?" Miluda asked.

"Delita Heiral," Delita said.

Miluda shook her head. "I've never heard of the Heirals," she said.

"You wouldn't," Delita replied. "My parents were farmers"

Radia gasped. Miluda didn't notice: her eyes were trained on the other man's young, serious face. He was supposed to be a minor noble. He should have been, with the company he kept. With the two bastards, the one who wore his hate on his sleeve and in his glaring eyes, the other who hid it behind high-minded words like justice. He was supposed to be one of them. The girl she'd tried to strangle was _supposed_ to be one of them.

They weren't supposed to be...they shouldn't be...

"Are you mad?" she asked.

There was silence. The wind moaned and howled along mountain passes and shale, rustling the scrub grass. Everything felt cold and distant.

"Are you mad?" Miluda asked again. "Are you...you know what these monsters do!"

"Oh for Ajora's sake!" spat the other one—the tall, acne-ridden whelp. "Would you shut your whining mouth!"

"Beowulf!" said the tall woman Miluda had never seen before.

"No," Beowulf said. "I'm tired of it. You didn't get paid, so you started murdering children. You think-"

"Gustav," Miluda whispered, remembering what the man had been, remembering how he'd died with disbelief in his eyes. "Gustav killed children, and we stopped him. We stopped him, even though you killed far more."

"When did we-" Beowulf began.

"You ever tried to buy food without gil in your pouch?" Miluda asked. "My parents ran an inn. They should have been wealthy. But the Ordallians burned too many farms, and the farmers could barely feed themselves, and then the army rode in and took what they needed. 'For the good of Ivalice'." She said the works with mocking sophistication, remembering the royal proclamations that had tried to justify the men, women, and children starving in the streets.

"Oh, but they tried," Miluda said. "They tried. They still had their contacts. Their inn became the hub of a small black market getting food where it needed to go. Yeah, they profited, but that's not why the Hokuten took them."

She remembered that night: the Hokuten breaking down the door, hauling their shrieking parents away in the night. Wiegraf and Miluda had been old enough to look out for themselves, and the inn was theirs.

"They took them for the same reason that they can't stand us now," Miluda said. "They can't stand the idea that the commoners could stand just as tall as the nobles. They can't stand the idea that the only thing that separates the powerless from the powerful is the boot they keep upon our neck. They'll take our food, they'll take our money, they'll take our freedom, and they'll spit on us if we ever try to get up. They'll take and they'll take and they'll _take._ "

The other Valkyries were all around her now. Five of them left, of what had once been a squad of forty. Five of them of what should have been an army of righteous revolutionaries fighting to make a better world, holding the north so that the Hokuten could not take any more from them.

"You..." she glared at Delita. "You know what they are. They'll never give anything to you. They'll take and they'll take."

"Please," Delita whispered.

Miluda looked down the line of women around her. There was Radia, so young and bright, using her art to try and make the world a better place, keeping Miluda on the right track. There was Arlette with an arrow nocked, a hunter who could hit a fleeing hare from a hundred yards. There was one-eyed Beatrix, who she'd once seen duel five Hokuten knights to a draw. There was Dametta, with her gargantuan axe and her broad shoulders, who always went for firewood no matter how hard she'd fought or how long she'd marched. And there was Justina with a satchel of javelins at her feet, smiling in that strange bemused way that always preceded her killing.

Five women. Five of the best women Miluda had ever known. Emilie should have there, but she wasn't. Because of the men below her, and all their monstrous ilk.

"Your sister's at Zeakden, Heiral," Miluda said. "She's pretending to be a Beoulve. I hope they find out she's not. I hope they treat her _exactly_ the way traitors like you should be treated."

"It's not her fault!" Delita cried.

"It's not her fault?" Miluda demanded, jabbing her finger towards Ramza. "They take from us. They lie from us. They betray us, and still you fight with them! What would you have me do? Stand aside? Go with you? I have seen what happens to those who surrender to your care. I have seen what you do to those your promise mercy." Her voice was rising along with her rage. "If I am to die, I will die on my feet with my weapon in hand and a curse upon my lips!"

The Valkyries roared in agreement around her. Miluda had found her position, in this hopeless place. She still believed in Wiegraf's cause, and she believed in paying evil unto evil.

"No one dies today!" Ramza shouted, and in one fluid motion had drawn a strange-headed arrow and loosed it towards her. Miluda moved with all her speed and training and desperate fury, spinning on her heel, catching the arrow between two fingers, using its momentum and her own to finish her spin so that the arrow hurtled back down towards the Beoulve and his bastard friends.

She would hold this pass. She was Miluda Folles, Captain of the Valkyries, leader of a revolution. There were things in this world worth fighting for. There were things in this world worth dying for, even if there was no hope left to her.


	19. Chapter 18: The Valkyries

**Chapter 18: The Valkyries**

 _...while the Bursting Blade has been carefully preserved by the nobility of Ivalice, the history of the Draining Blade is far more elusive. The Draining Blade is at once a more difficult and more attainable art. Unlike the Bursting Blade, it requires little in the way of equipment, since it takes advantage of the natural magical field every living soul possesses. However, the Bursting Blade merely amplifies a user's magical powers for destructive ends. The Draining Blade requires careful training to use your innate magic in unconventional ways, co-opting an opponent's magical field and absorbing and redirecting their power. Practiced Vampire Knights can exhaust enemies from afar and even absorb and reflect enemy magical attacks, but sadly the art is largely confined to single lines of master-student relationships..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Sword Arts of Ivalice"_

She caught the arrow.

Ramza loosed it one fluid move, hoping to end this fight before it began, to make it through the Plateau without blood on his hands. Miluda spun like a dancer, caught it and redirected it in one fluid motion, and he could _see_ his arrow coming back towards him, designed to choke and blind and make easy targets of any who inhaled its soporific smoke. Ramza had always used it to win without killing, but they were surrounded by women with every cause to hate and hurt.

Another choice that conspired to catastrophe. Like trusting Argus, or leaving helpless captives in the hands of the Hokuten, to be beaten and tortured for information.

They were already tired enough. They had left the Beoulve Manor and ridden through the night, resting only for a few hours here and there. Delita wanted to urge their birds to charging speed, but there was no chance of relief mounts, so they proceeded at an easy trot, and every delay made Delita more of an anxious, angry wreck.

Across the rolling plains, with the mountains looming larger and larger, eating sparingly from their packs, napping for a few short hours here and there, riding through the Limberry lines with Argus' bitter grace.

So here they were, tired, hungry, and facing Ramza's mistake. A woman who hated them, with all that remained of her army. An arrow that would leave them gasping and blind for sharp weapons to tear them apart.

And then fire exploded into the world.

A long stream of white flames burst up from his right, obliterating the arrow and racing towards Miluda. She threw herself to one side, and the fires blasted this way and that, sweeping across the plateau, sending the women upon it scampering for cover. Ramza's head jerked to his right, and he found Reis, her arms spread wide to either side, her chest puffed up, her mouth open and exhaling that terrible blaze. The shadow of colossal wings seemed to stretch out behind her.

Ramza had seen magic before, but not like this.

He forced his gaze away as Beowulf and Delita shouted and urged their birds up the hill, under the cover of the flames. He started to follow, but then one section of the flames along the ridge of the plateau parted down the middle, like a cascade of water divided by a boulder. Two women burst through, wreathed in shimmering force that shed fire around them. Miluda and her red-haired lieutenant.

"Ramza!" Reis called from behind him, breathless and panting. "Don't let them touch you!"

"Don't-" For a surreal moment, Ramza was bewildered. He almost laughed. Did Reis understand how fighting worked? The whole point was to make sure the enemy didn't touch you. That usually meant death.

But then the pieces clicked together: how the red-haired woman had drained the very strength from Argus' arms, and how the two women had just cut their way through a wall of fire. This was some art or magic Ramza didn't know, something that could hurt him if he let them get close.

And how to avoid it, without letting them get to Reis?

He found out the question was moot when Reis burst past him atop her bird. She spread her arms wide and gestured downwards, and both she and her mount burst into the air in a rush of a wind and a terrified squawk. Again, Ramza got the fleeting impression of vast, leathery wings. Both Miluda and her lieutenant craned their heads to stare at the woman above them, and Ramza seized the moment. He urged his mount past them, leading it off the winding path so its taloned feet scrabbled for purchase on the hillside.

He felt an impact against the birds flank, and his mount gave a whimpering shriek. The chocobo slumped forwards as red blood poured down its side and flowed down the slope. It staggered on a few more steps, then slumped over just as it reached the plateau with a feeble wailing cry that left Ramza feeling sick inside. He stopped to run a hand over its head, tried to think of what to do, and...

And there was a towering woman moving from the corner of his vision, her axe already swinging.

Ramza threw himself backwards, and the axe whisked by overhead, stirring his hair. He stumbled away as the axe came sweeping through the air again, the long-haired woman in front of him, face set in a firm grimace, broad shoulders flexing with every terrible swing.

He ducked away, frantically looking every which way. Reis was standing over her chocobo, which was crumpled to the ground with its leg twisted beneath it. Beowulf was still atop his purple bird, dodging between javelins flung after him by a smiling woman. Behind him, a woman lay bleeding upon the ground, clutching a bow in her dying hands. Closer to Ramza, Delita and a one-eyed woman were a frenzied storm of clashing blades, with a bloody chocobo at Delita's back.

Just a flash, a glimpse of the chaos and the madness. Then his eyes were back on the colossal woman in front of him, and the executioner's axe she swung with such terrible strength.

So Ramza lunged forwards, beneath the swinging axe. He saw the woman's eyes flash wide, and then his shoulder slammed against her chest, knocking her backwards and sending aching bolts down to the tips of his fingers. He ducked back and grabbed at her axe just beneath its head, trying to wrest it from her powerful grip. She was gasping, wheezing him, fighting him, pulling at that axe so its razor's edge jerked closer and closer to his head.

From the corner of his eye, he saw movement. Miluda and her red-haired lieutenant had crested the slope, and were turning their staggering climb into a stumbling charge, straight towards him. Ramza's heart leapt into his throat and made it hard to breathe.

He twisted back towards the axe-wielding woman, slammed into her again, knocked her backwards with a kick to her stomach and then danced away. His hand flashed to the sword at his waist, and closed on nothing but air.

Because the sword was with his chocobo, of course. Where he'd left it.

He cursed under his breath, his eyes on the three women in front of him: the woman with the axe rising to her feet, Miluda and her lieutenant closing in. He was unarmed and surrounded by warriors with every reason to kill him.

Then, all at once, there was a purple bird in the thick of them.

It was oddly comical: the giant squawking bird plunging into their midst, catching every one of them off-guard. Ramza jerked backwards and fell: across from him, he saw the red-headed woman do the same. The woman with the axe swore and dropped her weapon. Only Miluda kept her feet, jabbing at Violet and dodging between Beowulf's flailing slashes. A javelin whizzed past Violet's head and bit into the earth near Ramza's right foot. He could have prodded the weapon with his toe.

"Gotcha!" Beowulf cried, and his other sword lashed out like a snake, and suddenly there was blood on the axe-wielding woman's chest. She fell to her knees.

"NO!" shouted Miluda, driving towards Beowulf as Violet charged off in the direction from which the javelin had come.

A moment's strange, empty calm. Ramza sat flat on his ass, staring as Miluda chased the bird that chased the woman with the javelins. Delita and the one-eyed woman continued their clanging, clashing interchange. And the red-headed was rising with her sword in hand, moving towards Ramza.

The moment was over. This was a fight for his life.

Ramza scrambled to his feet, charged to the side and grabbed his sword from his fallen chocobo. He turned, raised his sword defensively, then remembered Reis' warning and threw himself backwards. His feet caught on the flank of his dead bird: he fell again, and rolled to the side as the red-headed woman's sword slashed into the dirt where his head had been. He sprang upright and...

And what? What could he do that didn't leave this woman dead?

She came at him again. Ramza moved towards her, because he didn't know what else to do. Again, he tripped over the bird, this time its scabby orange feet. He pulled himself along its still-warm bulk. He could hear her closing in.

He slashed, and his sword tore through flesh and leather. He grabbed the bag from the chocobo's side, tumbled away in a cloud of bloody feathers, fumbled inside the bag and tried to find his way through the tight bundles of cloth until-

There.

He hurled one of the arrows towards the woman's face, and slapped his chest at the same time. The runes flickered to life, and his head swam dizzily. Sleep-deprived, and he'd used the runes too recently, but they worked: as choking white fog enveloped both of them he could still breathe. He moved forwards and knocked the blade from her hands as she choked and gasped. Then he threw her over his shoulders, carried her from the cloud, and hurled her to the ground.

She hit hard, gasped harder. Her eyes stared up at him, but there was very little pain or fear there. It was a strange sort of dawning disbelief.

"You're-" she broke off coughing, and tried again. "You're not...you're really-"

Ramza stared down at her. She stared up at him. There was something he could see in her eyes, something he almost understood. What was he seeing? What...

"Ramza!" cried Delita.

Ramza turned just in time to see the blade threshing towards him. He lifted his own sword, and the blades clashed together with such terrible force that Ramza's arm went numb. He stumbled backwards, barely able to parry as Miluda rushed after him, a frenzy of slashing steel. Her glaring eyes transfixed him.

"Bastard!" she howled. "Beoulve!"

She was just as fast and just as strong as she had been in the Desert, but now there was an awful fury that whetted each blade. Something more than death hung on the edge of her sword: something like oblivion, something like hell, something like _vengeance_. She didn't seem human anymore. She was something terrible and righteous, like Ajora punishing the sinful world by suffusing it in cataclysmic catastrophe.

The blade did not slash: the blade was a hurricane, threatening to engulf him. She did not walk: she thundered, like a storm given flesh. He was face-to-face with a force of nature, and that force of nature wanted him dead. And Ramza was weak, Ramza was tried, and Ramza knew that she wasn't wrong to hate him, because she had put her trust in him and the people she cared for had been destroyed as a result.

He parried, but only just. He dodged, but only just. His arm was numb. His feet tripped over themselves. He felt gangly, and clumsy, and wrong.

She stabbed towards him. He struck at the outthrust blade, and she slammed forwards, drove an elbow into his throat. He gasped, his vision going black around the edges, almost didn't see her twisting so she could thrust her sword into his unguarded belly. Ramza kicked out, caught her legs, and they fell to the ground in a heap of flailing limbs.

He pulled away from her. She lifted her blade. Ramza lifted his metal-edged greaves up in a cross-guard, caught the blade and his arms shuddered and he felt his bones shake and his knees sank into the dirt as he struggled for breath. He tried to rise, and-

And Miluda shimmered, like heat on stone. And suddenly it felt as though Ramza's body had fallen asleep, legs and arms and brains, and his chest felt tight and he could barely see and there was Miluda, towering above him, sword rising for the killing blow, and Ramza could not will himself to stand.

 _Thhkt._

It was the sound of sharp metal tearing through flesh, clothes, leather, and armor. It was the sound of a blow that killed. It was the sound of death by the sword.

It was just sound. Ramza felt no pain. He didn't feel anything, except flecks of something warm and wet splashing across his face.

He blinked up at Miluda. She looked different than she had a moment before. It took Ramza a few seconds to understand why. To see the sharp, bloody swordpoint protruding from her chest. To see Delita standing behind her, his eyes wide, his mouth open, his face pale.

Miluda slumped forwards, falling to her knees and gasping as Delita's sword slipped from her back. Her blood dripped from its point and into the dust. She lifted her hands to the wound, then stared up at Ramza. Her mouth opened, then closed. She fell to one side with an uneven _thumph_ , and rolled onto her back, wheezing. Blood began to pool beneath her.

Ramza stared at her. His mind felt just as sluggish as his body, every though weak and distant. He couldn't quite understand what he was seeing.

Miluda's eyes flickered towards Delita. "K-kill..." she started. "Kill for them...all you like...they'll never...you and...and your sister..."

Her eyelids were fluttering. Her face was very pale.

"...oulve..." she whispered.

And then her eyes snapped open, blazing with rage, spearing Ramza and dispelling his mental stupor in one fierce sharp shock.

"When the world is done with you, Beoulve, you'll pray for the mercy of a death this quick!" she roared, as blood trickled from her lips. "You'll pay, Beoulve, you and all your monstrous kin, and-"

She took in a deep breath, her eyes blazing brighter. Then all at once the fire was gone, and she exhaled a rattling sigh. Her body went slack.

Ramza stared at her body. He lifted his eyes to Delita, still standing behind her, looking not at Miluda or at Ramza but at his bloody sword.

Somewhere far away, Ramza could hear other voices. Reis and Beowulf.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine. I'm fine."

"Your chocobo..."

"It was my fault. I hadn't used that spell before, I didn't think-"

"I'm just glad you're safe."

"What about you, Wulfie?"

"I'm fine, I'm fine."

"You're bleeding."

"I'm not...LOOK OUT!"

Ramza jerked upright, then stumbled back to his knees, his legs still prickling with numbing needles, unable to bear his weight. The red-headed woman was staggering towards them, but she had no sword in her hand. She was coughing and wheezing, rocking from side to side with every step. She tripped to a halt just a few feet away, staring down at her dead captain. Her narrow face was devoid of emotion.

She turned away, and limped past Delita. Ramza's head turned upon a creaking, reluctant neck to follow her path. Beowulf and Reis stood in Radia's path. Beowulf reached towards his sheathed sword.

"No!" Ramza cried, and his voice sounded far louder than it should have. It took him a moment to realize that Delita had shouted, too.

The red-headed woman kept moving, either unseeing or uncaring for the danger in front of her. Beowulf hesitated, and then Reis grabbed his hand and pulled it away from his sword. The Valkyrie staggered past without looking at them.

Ramza turned his head back to Delita. Delita's eyes flickered towards him, but he did not quite meet Ramza's gaze.

"She wasn't..." he started. "She didn't have to be...why..."

His bloody sword slipped from his hand, and clattered to the ground. Ramza pushed his hands against the ground, but they too felt asleep, weak and noodly, unable to bear his weight. He turned his head slowly from side to side to see the fallen women, and lifted his head to watch the red-headed woman, still staggering on as the wind howled.

 _We won_ , Ramza thought, and almost felt like crying.


	20. Chapter 19: Funeral Pyre

**Chapter 19: Funeral Pyre**

 _...I confess, I am daunted. Every scrap of research shows me just how much we do not know. Even now, centuries after the Golden Age of King Delita, we have not fully recovered what was lost in the Cataclysm! The Ydorans were experts in every field—genetics, engineering, metalworking, magic, magitek, and countless others. They synthesized their knowledge into incredible forms. The Dragoners were one such example: men and women who carried latent powers that would allow them to echo and invoke the strength of the long-dead dragons. But such is the way of life: what is lost can never be recovered, no matter how much we might wish otherwise. The best we can do is find echoes and inspirations, and weave them into our lives as best we can._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Letter to the Professor of Ydoran Studies at Gariland University."_

They were too tired, too wounded, and too weak to advance any further that day. They had survived against difficult odds, and not without cost. Beowulf had taken an arrow in the shoulder, and Delita had taken more than one wound in his fight with the one-eyed woman. Ramza was a long time healing from the strange magic Miluda had used on him. Reis alone was unwounded, and even she was exhausted from the difficult magic she'd used to save them from an impossible situation.

They huddled together around Violet, treating their wounds as best they could. Reis would finish the job during the evening, after she'd had time to rest and restore her powers. Once they were done, they took stock of their surroundings. They moved through the Plateau, gathering what material they could find, examining the other dead. Men and women missing arms and legs, with wounds in chests and stomachs. Men and women who had died in their own piss and shit. In one tent, they found the blonde woman who had faced them so audaciously in the south. When Reis had tenderly lifted the thin blanket from her body, Ramza staggered out of the tent and vomited, bile rasping down his throat.

"Did we..." Ramza whispered. "The Hokuten...?"

"Must have been Limberry," Delita said, and there was no energy in his voice. The restless, half-crazed man who had driven them on from Igros was gone. This Delita was a stumbling zombie, barely looking at any of them.

"We can't leave her like this," Reis said. "We can't leave _any_ of them like this."

"We can't bury them," Beowulf said.

"We can burn them," Reis said. "Put the tents we don't need all together. I'll start the fire."

That was how they spent their day: grabbing tents, blankets, and weapons, setting aside what they needed, putting what was flammable in a pile. The bodies were the worst: either they stank, or they were still wet with blood. Ramza was weak, but he could not bring himself to stop. He kept moving, even though he felt dizzy and distant, as though he might collapse at any moment. He would have carried Miluda, but Delita shouldered him aside and cradled her body himself.

By the time the day was giving way to a clear, gorgeous dusk beneath a sky blazing amber and rose quartz, they'd gathered the dead and made a makeshift pyre amidst tents and blankets, scrub grass and saplings. The Valkyries they'd slain had place of honor atop the pyre.

"This won't tire you out too much?" Ramza asked.

"Not if we're staying here tonight," Reis said.

"We have to," Delita said, in that same dead voice. "The Lenalian Mountains get too cold at night. Two to a tent, for warmth."

"Shouldn't we set a watch?" Beowulf asked.

"What's the point?" Delita asked. "Allies behind us. Enemies ain't coming."

He wandered off into the dark. Ramza stared at Miluda's slack, white, bloody face. At the faces of all the woman who'd died as they chased after Teta.

"What's his problem?" Beowulf asked. "We won."

"How can you ask that?" Ramza said, staring at the tall, gangly boy.

"This is war," Beowulf said. "It's what we trained for."

"They were only hurt because of what I did, Beowulf," Ramza said. "Because I promised them safety, and-"

"And Argus betrayed you," Beowulf said.

"And I trusted the wrong person," Ramza said, shaking his head.

"And it's your fault?" Beowulf said. "It's your fault he was a monster? It's your fault these women got hurt? It's your fault they wanted vengeance?"

"I don't...that's not..." Ramza shook his head. "It's not that simple."

"It's exactly that simple," Beowulf said.

"He's not wrong," Reis said.

Ramza looked towards her. Reis had a hand on Beowulf's uninjured shoulder. "You step onto a battlefield with sword in hand, you accept the price," she said. "You did the right thing. It's not your fault it got fucked up."

"What's the point of trying to do the right thing if you can't succeed?" Ramza asked.

"Oh, that's bullshit!" Beowulf spat. "That's like asking, 'What's the point of fighting if you lose?' You fight because you have to, Ramza."

Ramza shook his head. "I don't believe that."

"Smarter people than us have argued about this," Reis said. "Not sure they ever found an answer. But there's one thing we can agree on." Reis turned back to the pyre. "These women deserve our respect."

She spread her arms, and the air around her flickered with the premonition of flames. She exhaled, and embers sighed out of her mouth, floated along the breeze like dandelion seeds. The shadow of the dragon around her was fainter this time, and gone almost as soon as Ramza noticed it. But the seeds of fire slowly blossomed into a full, roaring inferno, rising to consume the fallen.

"Thank you," Ramza said, as they watched the blaze. "We couldn't have...we'd be dead without you. Both of you."

"Well, hell," Beowulf said. "A desperate charge right into enemy territory? I should be thanking _you_."

"I should really find a man with less drama," Reis said.

"Please, woman," Beowulf said. "You'd be bored within the first day."

Ramza didn't understand how they could be so unaffected by what had happened. He envied them.

He turned away, his heart, head, and body all aching in unique ways. He wandered off after Delita, found him at the very edges of the firelight, staring down the long, winding climb they'd taken to get here. Ramza stood besides him, and they stared back the way they'd come as the sky darkened above them.

"Wasn't she right, Ramza?" Delita asked.

"She was," Ramza said. How could he deny it? The people she cared for her had been hurt because she'd misplaced her trust. She'd believed Ramza could offer her a safe path, and Argus had...

But Ramza should have known. He should have known better than to trust Argus.

"About everything," Delita said. "About..."

Silence. The flames crackled behind them. The wind howled. From this far away, Ramza couldn't smell the bacon-in-the-pan scent of the bodies burning.

"If it were Alma," Delita said. "We'd have an army out here, right? It wouldn't just be us. It wouldn't..."

Ramza stared out with Delita, out down the rocks, out to the distant flickering fires of the soldiers of Limberry. The moon had waxed far above, and everything was illuminated by its ghostly light, stark and white and beautiful. They'd ridden all this way, after Teta.

And if it had been Alma, every one of those Limberry soldiers would be on the Plateau right now. Delita was right.

"I thought if I was the best," Delita said. "I thought if I...if I excelled. I could just as great as Balbanes, or your brothers, or..." He shook his head, and dropped his gaze. "But I couldn't. They always hated me. Madoc and them, they..."

"They were assholes," Ramza said.

"If everyone else is an asshole," Delita said. "You've got to ask yourself...what if it's you?

"Del, this isn't your-" Ramza started.

"I know," Delita said. "Not my fault. How could it be? I wasn't there to protect her. I was with you. Dreaming above my station. Pretending I could ever be..." He looked up at Ramza, and there were tears in his eyes. "Ramza. Remember when I defended discharging the Corps? Remember how I..."

He looked down at the ground. "The way she looked at me, Ramza. I can't get it out of my head. She didn't hate me. She pitied me."

He was shaking now. His voice was weak.

"I'm nothing."

Ramza reached out to pat his friend's shoulder. Delita shied from his touch, and Ramza withdrew his hand as though it had been burned.

"I'll take first watch," Delita said. "We're leaving at first light. They're not taking Teta from me."

Ramza hesitated, his soul and body too exhausted to find the right words to comfort Delita. The sheer scale of the injustice around them...the sheer, awful weight of the things they had done and the blood on their hands.

The Valkyries were dead. Alma had been beaten, and Dycedarg stabbed. Teta lay in enemy hands. All because Ramza had dreamed of mercy. All because Ramza had imagined he could stand anywhere near as tall as his father and brothers.

Ramza headed back towards the fire, but stopped to stare up at the sky, tracing the familiar patterns of the Zodiac and half-remembering old stories about the Braves. "Delita," he said. "Thank you for saving me."

Delita said nothing. Ramza felt a pang in his chest, but he shrugged it off and kept walking.

"Ramza!" Delita called.

Ramza turned back towards Delita, who was looking away into the night. "If it was me," he said. "If she'd been about to kill me, would you have...could you have...?"

Ramza's throat felt very dry. He swallowed.

"I think so," Ramza said, and felt a stab of fierce cold guilt rising up from his stomach against his heart. Because 'think' hadn't been the word he'd wanted to say. The word he'd wanted to say was 'hope.'

He turned away from Delita.


	21. Chapter 20: By Nobler Means

**Chapter 20: By Nobler Means**

Colder and colder with every hour they rode. Farther and farther, as men and women staggered and slumped into the dirt. Some rose again. Many didn't.

Teta, her body a bundled mess of bruises and dirt, watched them from her place in front of Gregory, with the bird bobbing beneath her as its feathers traced a pattern on her thighs. She chafed and ached from the constant up and down of their journey, Higher and higher they climbed, riding along the long high plains of Fovoham, with windmills churning away here and there in the distance.

It was slow going, of course. Gregory and his riders were the healthiest of the group, stopping here and there to keep the straggling line in motion. At times, Gregory was the _only_ rider: he would send his fellows in different directions, making contact with other members of the Corps, setting up camps where they would try to sleep through the cold, chilly nights. But there weren't enough blankets and never enough food, and the moans of the wounded made it so hard to sleep, and there were always a few who went to sleep and never woke up the next morning.

"Isn't there anything we can do?" Teta asked, one stark morning, staring at the body of a huddled man who looked younger than she was. Her voice was weak and her stomach ached with hunger. She shouldn't have spoken—that wasn't how she survived—but she was so tired, and it seemed so wrong that someone so young should die alone in the cold.

"Now you care?" Gregory asked.

Teta didn't know what to say, so she said nothing. She didn't know how many men and women had set out from the Plateau, but by the time they reached their destination, at least a fifth of them were dead.

Their destination was a small farm that straddled a high mountain pass, with the heavy shadows of the Lenalian mountains looming overhead. A windmill spun above them, and the creaking of its churning gears could be heard long before they reached it. The air was cool and crisp, unexpectedly pleasant after their cold passage. But farther to the south, Teta could see heavy snowclouds among the mountains.

There were other men and women of the Corps here. Teta had a hard time thinking of the ragged band they'd led out of the Plateau as soldiers, but the word seemed much more fitting here. They looked just as strong and capable as the Hokuten guards who so often staffed the Beoulve Manor. They had set up numerous tents and worked at steaming pots set over numerous fires. Cries of relief echoed across the lines of the Corps.

Gregory rode through the ranks of the soldiers until he had reached a heavy wooden door at the base of the windmill. He dismounted, and led Teta inside. She'd never been inside one before, and in spite of her aching fear and gnawing hunger she found herself slightly fascinated by the gears turning around her, a constant rumble she could feel in her teeth. Wooden crates and piles of hay were scattered haphazardly around the gigantic wheels of the central column.

"Stay here," Gregory ordered, shoving her onto one of the patches of hay. "You leave this room, I won't be responsible for what happens to you."

He left the room and headed back outside. The heavy wooden door slammed shut behind him, and Teta heard the _clink_ of a key being turned in the lock. Teta had not wasted time protesting, and she didn't waste time investigating the crates, either. There would be time enough for that latter. The pile of hay had a dusty, musty scent, and it scratched awfully against her ankles, but it promised warmth, and she dug herself deeper, huddling in on herself, closing her eyes against the aching of her stomach.

She was still alive. She was still alive.

She slept again, for what else was she to do? She didn't know how long it was she slept. All at once she was awake, and she heard voices outside the door.

"...not happy, Greg," said a high, nervous voice she didn't recognize.

"What choice did I have, Drew?" answered Gregory.

"So why is she still here?"

"You're not seeing the bigger picture."

The key turned in the lock again. Teta shut her eyes tight, and huddled deeper into the straw. She forced herself to breathe, slow and deep and regular. She didn't know where the conversation would lead, but it was her first chance to hear Gregory unguarded, and even the smallest scrap of information could make a huge difference. Learning about Eugenia's bed-wetting at school and dropping the information in an isolated moment had made sure the bitch kept her hands to herself in all future encounters.

"Then tell me, Greg," said Drew.

"One sec."

She heard Gregory moved towards her, kept her breathing even, her eyes closed. He slapped the straw next to her, and she gave a low grunt of surprise and rolled away from the sound, huddling deeper in on herself.

Gregory moved away. His footsteps were shifting back and forth across the room. Was he pacing?

"How bad it is?" Gregory asked.

"It's bad," Drew said. "Wiegraf's got raiding parties hitting their flanks, but we're outnumbered and they've got all the supplies they need. They're coming."

"Zeakden's still holding?" Gregory asked.

"Zeakden's still...Greg, they're _heading_ for Zeakden?"

Gregory snorted. "Of course they are," he said. "They take Zeakden, and they can take the whole north. Every other fort, all without a real fight. And we've got nowhere to run, right? That's what she's for."

"What she's..."

"Who's leading the assault, Drew?" Gregory asked.

"Who's leading...who leads the fucking Hokuten, Greg?" Drew's voice cracked.

"And whose sister do I have here?" Gregory asked.

"That's..." Drew trailed off. "That's the Beoulve girl?"

"Exactly," Gregory said. "She got us out of that Manor. She got us through the Limberry lines. I don't care how much they hate us, Drew, they're not gonna let us slit her throat. They'll bargain. Buy us time to figure something out."

"Figure what out, Greg?" Drew asked.

The door swung open. There was the skidding, squealing sound of feet pivoting on their heels. There were audible gasps.

"He doesn't know, Drew," said a deep, male voice that sounded vaguely familiar to Teta's ears. Did it sound a little like Miluda?

"Wiegraf!" Drew squeaked.

Wiegraf? Wiegraf Folles? Leader of the Death Corps?

Teta forced herself to keep breathing slow and steady. She couldn't be noticed now.

"Sir," Gregory said, his voice tight with fear. "It's good to see you."

"I wish I could say the same, Gregory," Wiegraf said. "But that would be a lie. You're not my sister, first of all. Where is she?"

"She remained behind to hold the Plateau," Gregory said.

"With what?" Wiegraf asked. "Six women?"

"Five," Gregory said.

"Braves save us," Wiegraf whispered. "Who'd we lose?"

"Emilie," Gregory said.

"That's a damn shame," Wiegraf said. "She was quite a soldier. Unlike you, Gregory."

"Sir-" Gregory began.

"A hostage, Gregory," Wiegraf said. "You've seen what I do to the men who resort to such disgraceful tactics."

"I'm not Gustav, sir."

"Oh, I'm well aware," Wiegraf replied. "Gustav, for all his many faults, had a plan."

"Sir-"

"Lieutenant Levigne," Wiegraf said, and there was murder in his voice. "I sent you south because you and your men were the best-trained to make the crossing over the mountains. You were supposed to threaten Igros and tie up the Hokuten. What did you do instead?"

"I know I failed, sir-"

"Gregory, you attempted to kill Prince Larg's foremost military advisor," Wiegraf said. "I don't care that you failed. I care that you made the attempt at all."

"I would have shown the world that such men can be killed!" Gregory declared, fire in his voice.

"He's not Elidibus, Gregory," Wiegraf said. "The world knows he can be killed. Who gives a damn? Our goal was to threaten the Hokuten and make it clear that we could exhaust them. It was to prove to Gallione that the men who claim to be looking for their best interests can't even protect their capital. It would have discredited and demoralized them, all while distracting them so we could evacuate the south."

"Instead, you drew their ire. Instead, Zalbaag Beoulve is marching north with the full force of the Hokuten. Thank God you _didn't_ kill him, Lieutenant. Dycedarg may be a snake, but at least he's a clever snake. He won't let the Hokuten kill themselves on a mission of vengeance that serves no purpose. Of course, it's serving its purpose. I don't know how we stop that army from killing us."

"The girl, sir," Gregory said. "She-"

"Even if I deigned to use her in such a disgraceful fashion," Wiegraf said. "She could only buy us a little time. And using her like that...do you have any idea what that would do to our cause?"

"Who gives a damn, sir!" Gregory shouted. "They're winning!"

Silence in the room. Teta's heart was pounding, but she did not allow her inner panic and anxiety to break her pretense of sleep.

"Gregory..." Drew whispered.

"Oh, what!" Gregory shouted. "What does it matter now? How many men and women are dead in the south? How many of us are gonna live through the next week? I'm giving us hope, and he thinks he can tell me-"

There was the sound of rapid footsteps. Teta couldn't help herself: she slitted her eyes and saw a blonde, strong shape crossing the room. Gregory flinched backwards, but the blonde shape—Wiegraf?—merely rested his hands upon Gregory's shoulders. She shut her eyes quickly.

"Gregory," Wiegraf said. "You're not Gustav. I know that. You're not a monster. You're just frightened. I understand. I don't want to die, either. But I would rather these noble fuckers visit the worst horrors they can imagine on me than ever allow myself sink to their wretched level."

"What does it matter if we're all going to die?" Gregory asked, and there were tears in his voice.

"It matters, Gregory," Wiegraf said. "Say the worst comes. Say we all die. If we die like bandits, with our sword at the throat of an innocent who never wronged us, that's how we'll be remembered. But if we die like heroes? If we die fighting for our cause and refusing to dirty our hands? They'll remember."

"They won't," Gregory said.

"If they don't," Wiegraf replied. "Their brothers will. So will their mothers, their fathers, their sons, and their daughters. They'll know that the blood on their loved one's hands is nobler by far than the so-called noble blood in their veins."

"And we make them pay dearly for every inch," Wiegraf said. "We fight clean, and we fight better, and we make them fear what people like us can do. Fear us the way they fear a panther stalking them at night, because that fear is the first step on the path to respect. When they know we can tear their throats out, they'll know better than to piss on us. Fear for our strength and admiration for our good deeds...even in death, from such simple things we may raise a brighter future from our ashes,"

The words touched something in Teta, something young and painful. She had visions of the quiet torments of the Preparatory Academy, the whispers and mockeries, the second-hand dresses shredded and burned while she was out of her room, the fingernails that had cut into her thighs during class, daring her to make a sound and draw the ire of the teachers. The Corps were bandits and marauders, who'd hurt the Hokuten and hurt convoys and hurt her and Alma and Dycedarg, had taken Teta hostage and threatened her and beatne her, but in Wiegraf's words she saw an end to that kind of nasty, low cruelty, inflicted on her just because she was beneath them.

"So, we're going to let the girl go," Wiegraf said. "Because otherwise, we're no better than they are."

Footsteps moving towards her. "Uh, sir," Drew said. "She's asleep."

"Oh, please," scoffed Wiegraf. "The girl's been awake since before I entered the room."

Teta stiffened in surprise, her heart beating so fast that it felt like it might burst from her chest. Wiegraf chuckled. "It was well-done, child," he said. "But you didn't even move when I burst in. Either someone drugged you, or you're a masterful actress who missed a beat. It's an easy mistake to make."

Well, no point in pretending now.

Teta sat up at once, opening her eyes and taking in the room. High-voiced Drew had lank brown hair and a double-chin. He towered over Gregory and Wiegraf. As for Wiegraf, he had a prominent jaw and blonde hair, and blue eyes that were surprisingly kind. He knelt in front of her.

"Alma, is it?" he said. "Alma Beoulve. I met your brother and his friends. They're impressive, for ones so young."

Teta swallowed. "Thank you, sir."

Wiegraf smiled. It softened his rugged face. "Have you been treated well?"

Teta hesitated, then looked towards Gregory. He was staring at her with a curious absence of emotion on his face. "Yes," she said. "He's looked after me and been very reasonable, all things considered."

"Who choked you?" Wiegraf asked, gazing down at the bruises on Teta's neck.

Teta said nothing. Gregory jerked out of his vacant reverie and cleared his throat.

"Ah, sir," Gregory said. "That was, uh..."

"Miluda," Wiegraf said, eyes closed. "Yes, well...I cannot blame her for her rage. I heard..." He studied Teta and asked, "You know what happened to the Valkyries?" Teta nodded, and Wiegraf asked, "It struck me as rather change. Would your brother really do such a thing?"

Delita or Ramza? But that question was irrelevant, because the answer was the same. "No, sir."

"Well," Wiegraf sighed. "Whatever his guilt, his sins do not rest on your head. Milly's anger blinds her to that reality. I will not ask you to forgive us, but I do ask that you understand." He stood up. "We'll leave you here with food when we depart," he said. "The Hokuten won't tarry far behind, but if you don't feel like waiting you might be able to make it to the Limberry lines past the Plateau. Though with the snow, you might..."

He trailed off, and Teta understood why. There were shouts from outside, shouts of alarm and panic. The shouts were getting louder with every moment, and Wiegraf turned towards the door.

It swung open, and Radia stumbled through the doorway. Her red hair was greasy, her clothing torn and ragged and burnt, and her tired eyes were underscored by dark bags. She staggered into the room, with soldiers crowding around behind her.

"Radia?" Wiegraf said. He attempted to grab her by the shoulders, but she shuddered at his touch, ducked past him and sank against a crate, without looking at him or anyone else in the room.

Wiegraf stared at her. He looked around the room—even at Teta, who barely noticed. Because the last time she had seen Radia she had been proud and strong and fierce and above all else kind even in her anger. Because in the thick of a dangerous place where Teta had been terrified and hurt, Radia had been a moment's rest and comfort and security.

Now she looked broken and hollowed out. She looked like the wounded on the Plateau, the dying in the Plague tents. She looked like a woman who'd lost everything.

Wiegraf knelt in front of Radia, but made no move to touch her. Radia's eyelids were fluttering.

"Radia," Wiegraf said. "What's become of Milly...of Captain Miluda?"

Radia's eyelids flickered open. There was silence in the mill, broken only by the creaking of the gears. She stared at Wiegraf for a long time, blinking slowly.

"Dead," she croaked.

A ripple of gasps. Wiegraf didn't move.

"How?" Wiegraf asked.

Radia looked over Wiegraf's shoulder at Teta. She didn't seem to see anyone else in the room. Wiegraf craned his neck to follow her gaze.

"Brother," Radia sighed. Her eyelids were fluttering again. "Her...broth..."

She slumped where she sat, her eyelids closed. Her breath came in the even metronome of sleep.

Wiegraf stood up slowly. Teta felt ice in her veins. She stared at his impassive back, her eyes flickering towards the door crammed with soldiers. No way out. No safety. No hope.

"Gregory," Wiegraf said. "Take Radia with you to Zeakden when you go. She's had a long few days."

"Yes...yes sir," Gregory whispered.

"I'll get everything ready," Wiegraf said.

Wiegraf turned towards the door. Teta still couldn't see his face.

"If anyone touches the girl," Wiegraf said. "I'll have whatever it was that did the touching."

He left the room. Teta sat alone in the room, filled with the low rumbling of the ever-turning mill. Gregory's eyes were on her.

"Your brother, Beoulve?" he said. "How? Zalbaag's heading towards Zeakden from the south, and I don't think you've got a Healer who can fix what I did to Dycedarg that quick."

Teta shook her head, barely looking at Gregory or Drew. Her eyes were on Radia, her heart aching in her chest. Radia still thought Teta was Ramza's sister so...so didn't that mean Ramza had killed Miluda? And she'd been so sure...

And how was she supposed to feel about the death of Miluda Folles? About the woman whose hands had been around her neck, left her with bruises she could still feel? How was she supposed to feel when she heard the pain in Wiegraf's voice? When she recognized that pain, because she felt it roaring to life in her own heart, an inferno that threatened to consume her?

Ramza had killed Miluda, but what had become of him afterwards? What had become of Delita? Was he dead? Was he...

She'd lost her parents. Did she have to lose her brothers, too?

There were angry eyes on her, from all sides. She should have felt in mortal peril, whatever Wiegraf's words of protection. But she was lost now, lost in questions. What the hell had Radia seen?

Gradually, the soldiers filtered out of the room. Gregory stayed behind longest, glaring at her, but Drew pulled him from the room, and soon it was just Teta and Radia.

Teta rose from her seat, pulling her blanket with her. She draped it over the sleeping woman, who turned, grunted softly, and then resumed her easy breathing. Teta moved back across the room, folding her arms protectively across her chest to try and ward off the hold. And the grinding mill turned on, and on, and on.

After awhile, the door opened again. Wiegraf entered the room, and made straight for her. Teta stiffened, but did not pull away.

"Your brother," Wiegraf said. She could see his face now, lined and craggy, as imposing as the mountains off to the south. There was no trace of kindness in his eyes.

"I'm sorry-" she started, because she didn't know what else to say.

"She choked you," Wiegraf said. "You're sorry?"

Teta opened her mouth, unsure of what she intended to say. Miluda had hurt her worse than any of her captors, but Wiegraf had still lost a sister.

While she searched for the words, Wiegraf said, "Here's the problem I'm having. There are four Beoulve children, and the three I'm met were blonde and relatively fair. Your hair and skin are darker. Now, _maybe_ I'd buy it's because Alma Beoulve was from a different mother, but so was Ramza Beoulve, and I'm having a hard time believing that he can look like his brothers while you look like none of them. You follow me?"

Oh, Teta followed him, alright. Her heart was beating rabbit-quick in her chest, and her throat felt very dry, and her fingertips felt fuzzy with weakness.

"You're not a Beoulve, are you?" Wiegraf asked.

What was she supposed to say? Cling to the lie that had kept her alive thus far? Tell him the truth, now that the truth was exposed? But his sister was dead and their was a blade on his hip and he could cut her down so easily and-

"It's alright," Wiegraf said. "It got you this far, didn't it?" He studied her for a moment, then asked, "Who are you?"

"No one," she croaked.

"I doubt that very much," Wiegraf said.

"I...lady-in-waiting," Teta said. "I...I guess."

"For the real Alma Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked.

Teta nodded. Wiegraf pursed his lips and looked over his shoulder at Radia. "Did she know?" Wiegraf asked.

The pieces clicked together. Wiegraf had solved the mystery, but not for her sake. He was looking for the answer to a question. Who was her brother?

"No," Teta said. It was true, of course, but she still felt a pang of guilt. She was betraying Ramza. She was betraying Alma. But if Delita was still alive, she didn't want to turn Wiegraf Folles upon him.

"I see," Wiegraf said. "So it was Ramza, after all." He stood up and turned to go.

"Wait!" Teta called.

Wiegraf stopped. Teta swallowed. It felt like her whole body was trembling.

"My brother, he..." Teta said. "He...he looks like me. Please, don't..."

"I met him," Wiegraf said. "He's funny." He studied Teta for a time, then said, "I can't make any promises. But I'll try."

"Thank you," she said. "And I'm...really. I'm sorry." And she was surprised to find she meant it. Whatever Miluda had done to her, Wiegraf didn't deserve to lose his sister.

Wiegraf nodded. "It must've been hard," Wiegraf said. "But you did well. You're safe now."

He left the room. Teta sank back against the hay, ignoring it as it scratched at her. She still felt so feeble, so weak. Attacked, and betrayed, and betraying. It was so hard to stay alive. It was so...

She must have slept again. This time, she was awoken by a rattling _boom_ that thundered even over the grinding mill around her. She blinked the sleep from her eyes as the door swung open and Gregory entered the mill, with Drew and Foxe at his side. Drew moved towards Radia, slinging her over one shoulder.

"Get up," Gregory said.

Teta stared at him, her brain lagging sluggishly, struggling to make sense of what she was seeing and hearing.

"What?" she said.

"I won't ask again," Gregory said, and drew his sword.

Teta's heart lurched, bolts of fear bringing her fully conscious and alert. She pulled herself back against the hay, staring at him. A part of her didn't understand. A part of her understood all too well.

"Wiegraf said-" she started, though she had so little hope.

"Wiegraf?" Gregory repeated. "Your brother killed Miluda, and you..." He moved towards her, half-raising his sword. His eyes were wide. He looked so pale and so frightened, not at all the commanding man who'd attacked the Beoulve Manor and kept his men in check.

"I'm not dying," he said. " _We're_ not dying. And if you fuck with me, I'll lock you in here with Foxe."

Foxe leered at her over his shoulder. "Could do it anyways," Foxe said. "Give me a little-"

Teta rose to her feet and moved to the door, trying to marshal some pretense of calm or control as she felt her thoughts shrieking, her body tinny and distant and empty. She was...she was so close! She could have...she...!

 _Stay alive stay alive stay alive_

Stay alive for what? So that Foxe can have his way with you when their resentment finally boils over? So they can slit your throat when they try and bargain with your life and find out who you really are? How does this end? How do you possibly survive this?

She walked outside on her own power, because that was all she could do. Because she would not be carried or manhandled, because even that small pretense of control was something to cling to. And maybe there was a little bit of those childhood stories, the idea that she could seize the moment and escape if she just kept her wits about her.

After all her time in the mill, the sunlight hurt her eyes. The thick array of tents were gone—the soldiers had ridden off. No trace of the wounded remained, save for a few burning pyres hosting the smoldering dead.

Thunder sounded again. No, not thunder: more like cannon fire, or the booming blast of Dycedarg's magic shattering masonry in the Manor. On a hill to the south, she saw a flash of bright light, and saw a portion of the hill explode up into a rain of dust and dirt. She shielded her eyes against the bright and burning sun, struggled to make out the human figures fighting atop that broken hill, and-

And saw that it was Wiegraf's sword on Delita's.

Her mouth opened. Her veins thrilled with electric relief. "DELITA!" she cried, and started to run towards him.

He looked away from his duel. "TETA!" he roared, his voice loud in spite of the distance.

Before she could move any further, an arm pulled across her shoulders, and a sword gleamed just below her eyes.

"Shout again, and I'll take your tongue," Gregory said.

Ice radiated out from Teta's bones. Gregory pulled her in an awkward shuffle towards the chocobos, who were fretting and balking at the sounds of battle in the distance. But as Gregory tried to haul her atop the bird, she twisted in his grasp.

"I warned you-" Gregory snarled

"Do it!" she cried, forcing fire and fury into her voice, pretending to be the noblewoman she claimed to be, because her brother was right there, so close, because for the first time in days she had reason to hope and because she was so outraged that this coward had the unmitigated gall to try and take that hope away from her. "Do it!"

Gregory stared at her, his face male, his mouth slightly open. His grip weakened, just for a moment.

Then his sword hilt rose high and hammered down against the top of her head. The world exploded into a hot, star-spattered darkness.


	22. Chapter 21: The Wheels of History

**Chapter 21: The Wheels of History**

 _...the Ydorans spread their rule by the edge of their blades, and imagine they are invincible because all kneel before them. But men who are compelled to kneel learn to move on their knees, so they may strike when their enemies feel safest. Only when all men stand and speak as equals can their be true peace. Only when all men recognize their part in God's Kingdom can His Kingdom be realized._

 _-Germinas' Gospel, "Ajora's Sermon in Goug"_

Wiegraf was waiting for them at the crest of a hill.

They knew they had been spotted. Reis had spied the scout who'd seen them, watched him dart back behind the hills. Ramza, Beowulf, and Delita had loosened their swords, but as they drew closer to a turning white windmill littered with the refuse of a small army, they found only a single man waiting for them. Only the brother of the woman they'd killed.

So many dead behind them. Gustav, slain for his crimes by the man in front of them. Wiegraf's sister and her Valkyries, burned upon a funeral pyre. And all the wounded who had fallen dead along the winding rut they had followed, that led them to this place. They had come so far, walking on aching legs besides Violet, heaped high with their gear. They had seen so many dead, as a chill wind blew out of the mountains.

"Beoulve," Wiegraf said, his naked sword in hand and his glaring eyes fixed on Ramza. "I hear you killed my sister."

"He did no such thing," Delita said.

Wiegraf eyes widened in surprise. "You?" he said.

"Me," Delita said.

Wiegraf stared at Delita, then looked towards Ramza. "Is this true?"

"No," Ramza said. "It was-"

"Ramza!" Delita barked.

Wiegraf sighed, the point of his sword lowering. "It _is_ true," Wiegraf said. "And you were still going to take the blame, Beoulve?"

"Your men took his sister," Ramza said. "What choice did he have?"

"Choice?" Wiegraf repeated. His eyes drifted dreamily between them, finally settling on Delita again.

"I spoke with your sister," Wiegraf said, looking at Delita. "She's quite remarkable." He jerked his head to the mill behind him. "She's to be left there, when the last of my men depart.

Everything felt strange and surreal, like a fever dream. Ramza was tired, and his legs and arms ached. Wiegraf was letting Teta go? Had their long ride been for nothing? Had their fight against the Valkyries been for nothing?

"Thank you," Delita said.

Wiegraf grimaced. "I will not accept the thanks of my sister's killer," Wiegraf growled. "I didn't do it for you. The act disgraced us. I do not intend to treat people as pawns. I won't sink to the level of your brother, Beoulve."

Ramza stared at him. He remembered the disbelief and quiet resignation with which Miluda and Wiegraf had looked at him in the Cellar. When Ramza had tried to convince them to come with him to Igros, because his brothers could broker a peace.

"What do you mean?" Ramza asked.

Wiegraf looked up to the sky. The corners of his lips twitched. "My sister's killers want a lesson in politics," he mused. ""How did I get here?"

"Your sister tried to kill us," Beowulf said, stepping forwards with his swords drawn.

"You sent her and her soliders into the reaper's scythe," Wiegraf retorted. "What would you have done, in her shoes?"

"Argus is as a fucking bastard," Beowulf growled.

"Who?" Wiegraf asked.

"The blonde asshole," Delit said. "With the bow."

"Ah," Wiegraf said. "He's responsible?"

"Ramza asked for a safe route," Delita said. "He trusted Argus when he gave him one."

Wiegraf shook his head. "Even if I believe you," Wiegraf said. "Does that absolve you killing her?"

"She was a soldier," Beowulf said. "She attacked us. She knew the risks."

"She was my sister," Wiegraf said.

"Sister or not," Beowulf said. "If she didn't want to die, she shouldn't have tried to kill us."

"Wait," Ramza said. "Wait, just..." He didn't understand. This fight felt more fruitless than even the battle with the Valkyries. The answers were there, peace was there, Teta was just beyond them, if Wiegraf would just listen, if...!

"What, Beoulve?" Wiegraf said.

"Please," Ramza said. "What...what exactly did my brothers do?"

Wiegraf studied Ramza. Ramza looked at him, hoping to hear the answers he needed.

"How did Gustav take the Marquis?" Wiegraf asked.

"He..." Ramza shook his head, puzzled. "What?"

"How was it done?" Wiegraf asked. "How did the Marquis Messam Elmdor, a warrior of renown, traveling to discuss joint operations with Prince Bestrald Larg under the escort of a cadre of knights, fall into the hands of Gustav and his men?"

"He was disguised as a Hokuten soldier," Delita said, while Ramza tried to piece together the larger meaning behind the question.

"Exactly right!" Wiegraf said. "A clever plan, too. Gustav was once a member in their ranks, after all. Perhaps he remembers their patterns, their disciplines, and their modes of operation. Knows enough to secret himself into their ranks to achieve his black aims. It's a plausible story, as long as you don't look too closely."

"What do you mean?" Reis asked, her voice calm.

"Do you know how long Gustav and his little band were attacking caravans?" Wiegraf asked. "Taking what they needed, while they tried to find the Marquis?"

"How could we-" Ramza started.

"Three weeks, right?" Beowulf said. His brow was furrowed in concentration. "That's...one a week, for a few weeks. I remember."

"Something like that," Wiegraf said. "About a month, all told. Slaughtering caravans in Hokuten cloaks. And here, the lie falls apart."

"What lie?" Delita asked.

Wiegraf held up his free hand, ticking off his fingers as he made his points. "One man using his knowledge of the Hokuten to infiltrate their ranks...difficult, but possible. A band of thirty wearing Hokuten cloaks, operating in Hokuten territory, for over a month? Were they never challenged? Did no friendly passing knight ask them their orders? Did no true Hokuten notice them? Why not? The whole of Gallione swarmed with Hokuten knights and their lackeys, trying to put a stop to the Death Corps, but one man steals thirty Hokuten cloaks, plays pretend while killing merchants and minor nobles, and the Hokuten are blind to it?" He shook his head. "This ploy could not have functioned without the help of the Hokuten. Not one dissatisfied member, either. This was a conspiracy that had to extend to the commanders of the Hokuten itself."

Ramza and Delita exchanged shocked looks. They'd talked about this, hadn't they? They'd wondered who among the Hokuten had stolen thirty cloaks to serve Gustav's aims. But why had the larger points escaped them?

"You're...you're saying my brothers..." Ramza couldn't bring himself to finish.

Wiegraf sighed. "Why were the Corps discharged without pay, Beoulve?"

"Gallione had to pay its part of the war reparations," Ramza said. "It was either...either pay the Corps or..."

Or what? The line had always been the protection of the kingdom—keep the orphanages open, keep the people fed and protected. But had that really been true?

"You're not entirely wrong," Wiegraf admitted. "It was a question of priorities, as it is with all rulers. Do you value your own pleasure, and make yourself a hedonist without parallel, wasting your wealth on wine and women? Are you a man of the people, who guarantees the well-being of your subjects whatever the cost? Or are you a prince of ambition, with your eyes on a loftier throne?" Wiegraf smiled, though there was no trace of humor in it. "The Corps was discharged so that the Hokuten could be preserved. So that Prince Larg would have his personal army intact."

"He wouldn't do that," Beowulf said.

"Why not?" Wiegraf asked. "His infant nephew is heir to the throne, and King Ondoria grows weaker with very day. Illness or his wife's poison, it doesn't matter: Queen Louveria is already in control of the capitol, and will be in control of the country before long. The Larg family will rule Ivalice, so long as they are strong enough to deny all challengers."

"What does this have to do with my brothers?" Ramza demanded.

Wiegraf chuckled. It was a grim, awful sound, like rocks scraping against each other. "You're not stupid, Beoulve," he said. "You know."

"It's not true," Ramza said. He wasn't sure what he was denying, but whatever monstrous accusation Wiegraf was making, it couldn't be true. It couldn't.

"It is," Wiegraf said. "It was Dycedarg that had the Corps discharged, Dycedarg that made sure his Hokuten were paid and loyal while Gallione starved, Dycedarg who painted us as bandits when we fought for what was promised us, Dycedarg who who gave Gustav the tools he needed to take the Marquis!"

"No!" Ramza cried, because each accusation seemed to crack his world. Dycedarg, faithful servant of their liege lord, keeper of the family who made difficult choices? No, he couldn't be...surely...

"Why?" Delita asked.

"Why, killer?" Wiegraf asked. "You know why. East Ivalice has the weight of numbers, but they were the frontlines of the War. It'll be hard enough for them to make a challenge against Larg and his sister, but harder still if the Marquis is killed by bandits. Limberry will fall to pieces struggling to pick an heir, and the only man strong enough to challenge him will be crippled."

"Duke Goltanna," Delita said.

"And his loyal Nanten," Wiegraf agreed. "The Corps were an inconvenience, making Gallione appear weak since Dycedarg refused to fritter his men away on those he consider beneath him, so he tried to kill two birds with one stone. Let the Corps kill the Marquis, and let Limberry tear us apart in the name of vengeance. A fine plan, no? The wheels of history would put an end to Limberry and Corps alike."

"Stop it," Ramza whispered.

"Stop what, Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked. "Are you so weak of will that you cannot even bear the truth?"

"My brothers...they..." Ramza tried to find the words, tried to express that sense of awe, of always falling short. Surely Dycedarg wouldn't do such things, sacrifice justice and service in the name of greater power, surely...

But didn't it all make sense? Dycedarg's rage when they'd returned home with the Marquis safe and sound, Dycedarg's confusion over Ramza refusing to kill...

"You've a big heart, Beoulve," Wiegraf said. "But a narrow gaze. The Corps was no threat to Gallione. It was a threat to Larg and his Hokuten. It was a threat to the men who will cling to power, whatever the cost. And your brother plays that game better than most."

Ramza did not have the energy or will to protest. He still ached, from battle and from marching. And the idea that Dycedarg had enabled Gustav...that Dycedarg had been responsible for the Corps' rebellion in the first place...

"Now," Wiegraf said. "My quarrel is with my sister's killer. The rest of you may stand aside. You may even take his sister with you, once my men have left."

"I fought her, too," Beowulf said, stepping in front of Delita.

"As did I," Reis said, stepping besides Beowulf.

"Both of you, get back," Delita said, shouldering his way between them. "Save my sister. Please. It's pointless, otherwise." He raised his sword. "I deserve this."

"For fighting in a battle?" Beowulf scoffed. "We're soldiers. This is what we do."

"You are the armed, ignorant thugs of a regime that would grind the rest of this kingdom beneath its heel so it could stand upon their broken bodies," Wiegraf said. "Soldiers, ha! _We_ were soldiers."

"Big talk," Beowulf said.

Ramza remained where he was. Everything felt fragile and flimsy, like the color had left the world. Hopeless. Powerless. Pointless.

"Enough," Wiegraf said, and swung his sword. It shimmered, and that shimmering was transfigured into a burst of white force. Ramza's instincts took over where his reeling mind could not: he flung himself to the ground, as fragments of stone and clods of dirt rained down around him. Somewhere, he heard a strangled squawk.

As the ringing in his ears faded away, Ramza heard the clashing of metal against metal. He lifted his head from the earth and saw Delita, blade locked with Wiegraf's. Delita's armor looked singed, but otherwise he seemed none the worse for wear, in spite of the smoking crater Wiegraf had left in the side of the hill. They blurred against each other, so the air was filled with the ringing of sword on sword.

"Violet!" Beowulf cried, somewhere behind Ramza.

Ramza craned his head to look: Beowulf was by his chocobo's side, stroking its head. The side of its neck was soaked in flood, and it was warbling softly, its big glassy eyes rolling in its face. A sliver of stone was buried in its neck, spilling blood into Beowulf's lap.

The bird cooed miserably, tried to lift its head, and slumped back to the ground, motionless.

"Damn you!" Beowulf cried, and flung himself away from the bird.

"Wulfie, no!" Reis shouted, lifting a hand to stop him, but he was already beyond her grasp. He pounded up the hill, one sword in each hand.

"A soldier!" Wiegraf shouted, kicking Delita away. Delita lost his footing, slipped and rolled down the hill. Ramza cried out and rushed towards him. "Who offers no pity for my sister, but mourns his fallen bird!"  
Delita stopped rolling. Ramza reached him, helped pull him to his feet. Delita was staggering, and now that Ramza was closer he could see that Delita was more badly hurt than he'd though—one sleeve had been burned away entirely, and the skin beneath was red and blistered.

"We should run," Ramza mumbled.

"Can't," Delita said. "She's...she's close."  
"I've seen your kind before, boy!" Wiegraf bellowed. Ramza turned to look, saw Wiegraf driving Beowulf back across the smoldering hilltop, step by step. Beowulf struck with all his strength, slashed wildly, but Wiegraf's solitary sword kept him at bay, precise and perfect. "Your a child playing at war! You've never thought of the lives you cut down as human! They're just characters in your story! It never even occurred to you that you would die, did it?"

"I'm a warrior!" Beowulf yelled, but there was something pitiful about it—something in the ragged, out-of-breath way he protested, a whine of desperation in his voice.

"You're playing pretend," Wiegraf sneered. "But this is a battlefield, boy. There's no place for pretenders."

Wiegraf twisted, his sword darting out, and Beowulf staggered backwards with a bloody wound in his chest.

"No!" cried Ramza and Delita together.

"NO!" howled Reis, and the shadow of those vast wings appeared around her once again, and a jet of flame smashed towards Wiegraf. In answer, Wiegraf raised his shimmering sword, and blasted back her flames with bright, booming force. Another spout of broken earth, stone and grass and dirt raining down around them, and perhaps Ramza would fall just as Violet had fallen, victim of a casual sliver of stone, but he was running without thinking because Beowulf was tumbling through the air, and Delita was charging towards Wiegraf again.

Ramza caught Beowulf before he hit the ground. The taller boy was awkward in his arms, his face pale, his lips flecked with blood. He was mumbling something, but Ramza couldn't understand him through the ringing in his ears. He breathed in ragged, rabbit-quick gasps.

As Delita and Wiegraf clashed again atop the hill, Ramza retreated to Reis and Violet. Reis was panting, but she grabbed Beowulf from Ramza's arms, cradled him as he lowered him to the earth. She rested his head in her lap, held one hand palm out just above his head and crooked the finger of her other hand. She slashed down with the crooked finger, just as she had when she'd healed them after their battle with the Valkyries: Ramza got a vague impression of scales and claws, and there was a shallow gash in Reis' palm. She lowered the wound to Beowulf's lips, and the blood that dripped from her hand glittered with colors Ramza couldn't quite describe as it fell.

"He'll be alright," Reis whispered. "He will." It sounded like a prayer.

"DELITA!"

Ramza's head jerked away from his injured friend. The voice was distant, but unmistakable. He had known Teta since he was a child.

"TETA!" Delita roared, and for a moment he was faster than Wiegraf, stronger than Wiegraf, driving the older man back across the hill in a flurry of expert slashes, a better swordsman than he'd ever been upon the Academy training grounds. Ramza circled around below the hill, until it was no longer between him and the distant windmill.

A small tableau of distant figures, clustered around a small flock of chocobos. Ramza couldn't quite make out her face, but he knew it was Teta at once—that long, clay-red hair left no mistake. She struggled in the grasp of her captors. A sword-hilt rose and fell, and Teta slumped unconscious in one man's grasp. He flung her over the side of his bird, and the small band began to climb onto their mounts.

"NO!" Delita shrieked, all rage and anguish.

"You're not going anywhere!" Wiegraf spat, and the clashing of their swords accelerated again, faster and faster. Ramza threw one look over his shoulder, saw Delita being driven back up the hill.

"Ramza!" Delita shouted. "Please!"

Ramza nodded, pushed his exhausted, aching body into a stumbling sprint, faster and faster, because Teta was so close, and they had fought so hard and risked so much to get here, because he could still feel the anguish in Delita's voice mirrored inside Ramza. He could taste hot metal at the back of his throat, but every stride took him closer to Teta, and...

But they were mounted, and the chocobos began to run, and Ramza reached back for one of his arrows, but they were in the saddlebags still slung around Violet's corpse, along with his bow, and he was close, so close he could see the livid bruise on Teta's head, but then the chocobos were pushed toa full sprint and Ramza couldn't catch them, no matter how hard he tried.

They pounded off, leaving dust behind them as they raced towards the Lenalian mountains. Ramza kept running long after he should have given up, hoping that one bird would stumble, that Teta would slip from her captor's mount. But no such miracles occurred. The small band got farther and farther away from him. There was another bird riding towards them, a solitary chocobo and its solitary rider.

And Ramza turned away, his chest aching, icicles stabbing down into the depths of his lungs, his legs trembling with effort, but he kept running, because he might not be able to save Teta but he could still save Delita. And Delita needed saving, because his momentary surge of vigor had clearly faded, and now his sword was clumsy, barely keeping Wiegraf back as Wiegraf drove him up the hill with frenzied thrusts and slashes, and Ramza didn't want to kill anyone but Delita had killed Miluda to save him and now Wiegraf was out for his blood and Ramza wasn't going to lose his best friend.

He charged up the hill, his sword drawn. Wiegraf and Delita were fighting at the crest of the hill, fencing between the two craters Wiegraf had carved into the earth. Delita was flagging and failing, his face pale, his blows slow. He stumbled backwards before Wiegraf's onslaught. The sword dropped from his fingers, and he dodged away from Wiegraf's stabbing blade.

"WIEGRAF!" Ramza shouted, with all his frustration and confusion, with all his rage that for all they'd done and all they'd been through they still couldn't save Teta.

Wiegraf turned, and snapped up his blade. Wiegraf was visibly tired—he had wounded Beowulf and driven Delita to the brink of exhaustion, but he had not done these things without effort. His dark blonde hair was limp with sweat against his forehead, and his sword was not quite as fast as Miluda's had been when she had nearly killed Ramza. But there was still that faint shimmer to Wiegraf's blade. Ramza watched it warily, afraid of any sudden spark of white that might blast him into ruin just like the hill beneath his feet. Perhaps Wiegraf was too tired to use the strange technique, but there was always peculiar force behind his blows: those shimmers would intensify, sparks of white that gave his sword the weight of an axe or a hammer.

The blade dropped with one of those forceful shimmers, and sent Ramza's sword flying down the hill, leaving his hand tingling with the aftershocks. Wiegraf stabbed towards him, and Ramza twisted, kicking Wiegraf in the side. The man stumbled down the hill, and Ramza rolled away.

"Ramza!" Delita shouted, tossing his sword. Ramza caught the blade, spun around, and parried Wiegraf's rising slash.

"You warned me, Beoulve!" Wiegraf hissed, as they dueled across the hill. "Why?"

"I don't want to kill you!" Ramza said.

Wiegraf halted, his sword raised defensively. "Another child playing pretend," he growled.

"You don't deserve this," Ramza said, on guard himself. "Neither did she. Neither did anyone!"

And was Dycedarg really responsible for this? For the discharging of the Corps, and the taking of the Marquis? Could all this really be laid at his feet?

Wiegraf snorted. "Justice and Service, eh, Beoulve? Noble goals, but how to reach them, when ambition and greed conspire against. These things require champions. I think your father really might have been one of them. Do you intend to be the same?"

Ramza shook his head. "I'm not like my father," Ramza said. No doubt about that. If it were Balbanes, he wouldn't have believed Argus. If it were Balbanes, he would have found some way to defeat Miluda without killing her.

"He's a hard example to live up to," Wiegraf conceded. He pivoted on his heel, looking between Ramza and Delita, unarmed at the top of the hill. "But you're not like your brothers, either. Where does that leave you, Beoulve?"

Ramza didn't know.

"Sir!"

The shout was tinny with distance, a new voice that Ramza didn't recognize. He hesitated to take his eyes off of Wiegraf.

Wiegraf seemed to have no such concerns. He turned his back on Ramza and Delita at once. Ramza hesitated, then tossed the sword back to Delita, underhand and hilt first. Delita caught it, and Ramza retreated down the hill to grab his sword.

"Report!" Wiegraf ordered, while Ramza and Delita rearmed themselves.

The source of the shout was the lone rider in a green cloak who'd been coming from the same direction that Teta's captors had ridden towards. He halted a little ways away, eying Ramza and Delita nervously.

"Sir?" the rider said quizically.

"Report," Wiegraf repeated.

"Hokuten forces have nearly reached Zeakden," the man said. "Zalbaag Beoulve leads them."

"Damn, already?" Wiegraf hissed. "They don't waste time, do they?" He whistled, and there was an answering cry from behind the windmill turning on one side. A golden chocobo slipped out from behind the mill and began trotting towards them.

"What are you doing?" Delita said.

"I would like vengeance," Wiegraf said. "But I would rather see the Corps survive, and my men won't reach safety if the Hokuten take Zeakden." He turned to face Delita. "I'm sorry. I gave orders for your sister to be left behind."

"Like I believe you!" Delita snarled.

"Believe or not," Wiegraf said. "The truth does not require your belief." The bird was closer—a fine, tall, golden creature, with intelligent orange eyes. "Gregory rides for Zeakden," Wiegraf said. "And he still believes his hostage to be a Beoulve. He won't kill her."

"Wait!" Ramza said. "You're not...my brothers...it's not true!" It couldn't be true. The world wouldn't make sense, if it was true. Or would the world make too much sense? Would all the pieces he hadn't quite understood align and click together, if they weren't the shadows who he'd always feared he could never live up to?

Wiegraf sighed and shook his head. "You've a big heart, Beoulve," he said. "But the world isn't like the stories. Justice and Service do not win out just because you believe. They require champions with open eyes."

The bird had drawn close enough: Wiegraf swung up onto it's back in one fluid motion, and rode away at a brisk trot, and Wiegraf and the messenger headed towards the mountains. Ramza stared after him, his head spinning from what Wiegraf had said, his heart pounding and chest heaving as he struggled for breath, feeling weak with the after-rush of adrenaline still drizzling through his system. He looked towards Delita, whose swordpoint had dropped to the earth. He looked like he was barely keeping his feet.

"Are you-" Ramza started, and Delita turned away from him, staring off in the direction his sister's captors had ridden.

Ramza shook his head and moved back down the hill towards Reis and Beowulf, sheathing his sword as he went. The front of Beowulf's shirt was soaked in blood, but the wound had already clotted. He was still pale, but his breathing wasn't nearly so labored.

"Is he alright?" Ramza asked.

Reis stroked Beowulf's hair. "He will be," she said. "But he can't...he can't go any farther."

Ramza looked at Delita, standing atop the hill and staring pointedly to the south.

"Reis," he said. "I think we have to-"

"I know," Reis said. "Don't worry about us." She lifted her voice. "Delita!" Delita didn't move. Reis sighed and said, "Ramza. We've got to get Beowulf until he's ready to move."

Ramza nodded, stumbled up the hill as his legs burned in protest. "Delita," he said. Delita didn't answer, and Ramza tried to clasp his shoulder. Delita shook off his touch, taking a few staggering steps down towards the mountains.

"Del!" Ramza shouted, grabbing him and wheeling him around. Delita tripped backwards, then lifted his sword so it was pointed towards Ramza's throat. Ramza froze, staring at that sword, his mouth open. The world cracked again: he though it might break to pieces any moment.

Delita's eyes widened, and the sword dropped from his hand and clattered on the cratered hill. He buried his face in his hands. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ramza said. But of course, it wasn't okay. That sword had been pointed at him. Delita had pointed a sword at him. A man had tried to kill them while sharing more of himself than Ramza's brothers had. He'd let them go, because justice and righteousness were more important than vengeance. Teta had been so close...!  
"It's okay," Ramza repeated. He slung an arm around Delita's shoulders, pulled his friend close, and guided him back down the hill.

Reis, in the time they'd been talking, had set Beowulf up on a bedroll and started pulling bags off of Violet's corpse. Ramza and Delita helped her. Ramza couldn't resist stroking the feathers on the dead bird's face. She'd served them so faithfully, from the Academy to the Cellar to here. Ramza couldn't fault Beowulf for his rage.

They left Violet on the hill, and together hauled Beowulf to the windmill the Corps had abandoned. Delita looked around, his eyes watering. "She was here," he muttered. "She was..."

"I know," Ramza said, as the gears churned ever on.

They finished packing their own bags and helping Reis adjust the gear they were leaving with her. Beowulf had not moved or stirred throughout all of this.

"How is he still asleep?" Ramza asked.

"I did that," Reis said. "Should help him heal faster."

Ramza and Delita finished packing their bags with food, tents, and other gear. They turned to face Reis. Ramza wasn't sure what he wanted to say.

"Hands out," she said.

Delita and Ramza exchanged confused looks, but obeyed without questioning. The whisking, scaly claw slashed again: lines of fire burned up their palms. Ramza hissed through his teeth. Delita made no sound at all. Reis extended her own hand, cut open the clotting line there, and clasped hands with each of them, pressing cut against cut.

Ramza felt the tiredness wash out of his bones, the tinny hollow feeling of hard exercise and hard fighting replaced with substance and strength. Reis wobbled unsteadily on her feet.

"Are you..." Ramza started.

"What?" Delita said, at the same time.

"Bit of strength," Reis said. "Keep you...on your feet. Won't need sleep. She's close." Reis was pale, but her eyes were set in a determined glare. "Get her back, boys."

Ramza nodded. "Take care of him," he said, nodding towards Beowulf.

"Like I'd ever let anything bad happen to him," Reis said.

Ramza hugged Reis, and she hugged him, and they remained like that for a moment, both barely on their feet, both reeling, taking comfort in the other. But Delita was already halfway out the door, and Ramza had to hurry to catch up. They strode past the smoldering fires with the half-burned bodies, and the refuse and latrine pits, the stinking legacy of a camp of the sick, the desperate, and the dying.

"Ramza," Delita said. "I'm...I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Ramza said. "If it was Alma-"

He cut himself off, too late. He saw Delita stiffen, from the corner of his gaze. Ramza felt the same strange, confused hurt gnawing inside him. If it was Alma, the Hokuten would have been her, riding down her captors. Because the Beoulves were men of such power and influence. The men who fought and killed for the cause of Justice and Service, and not petty ambition or greed. Never men who would betray their oaths and hurt the weak for the sake of convenience and power.

Right?

Ramza and Delita didn't speak, as they left the mill behind them, and trudged towards the shadowy bulk of the mountains, grey with the promise of weighty snowclouds.


	23. Chapter 22: Cycle of Vengeance

[sorry for the long absence, guys. From here on in, we're gonna be nonstop with updates. And if you're looking for more, please checkout my website, quickascanbe dot com]

 **Chapter 22: Cycle of Vengeance**

The darkness did not hold her long. In spite of the pain, and in spite of her fear, she fought her way free, because there was a hope of escape and freedom, tantalizingly close.

But by the time Teta was conscious again, the windmill was gone from her sight. She was splayed across the back of Gregory's chocobo, her legs and ankles bound again, a rough length of cloth tied around her head and clenched between her jaws, so she could taste the smothering dust and must of it. The air was brisk, and afternoon was giving way to evening.

What was she supposed to do now? Roll free? Idiotic, she'd just hurt herself, and they'd be on her in moments.

She felt like crying. She'd been so close. She'd been so fucking close, and now-

No. Just like the Academy, there was no time for self-pity. Weakness would be seized upon, if she showed it.

And what if Delita were dead? What if there was no rescue coming? What if...

No no no no no. Stop it. Survive. A moment will come, if you are vigilant, and you are careful. If...if Delita is dead...

 _He's not he's not Wiegraf said he would try he said_.

That didn't matter. Think of the facts, Teta. If Delita is alive, he will still come after you. If...if he's not, than Wiegraf is alive, and he'll see you free.

 _You selfish bitch_.

Selfish. Her brother could be dead, and all she could think about was her own skin.

 _I can't save him._

No. She was so powerless. For the first time in her life, she really understood Alma. She wanted a sword in hand, power enough to put an end to all these tragedies.

And what would spring from that act of vengeful righteousness? Assassins raiding the Beoulve Manor? Ramza Beoulve killing Miluda, as her brother chased after her? How much more violence would be born from one swing of her blade? How many more brothers, sisters, fathers, daughters, mothers, and sons would be left grieving?

So hard to keep ahold of her thoughts. Drifting away into the darkness. It was so hard to breathe, her mouth stuffed with cloth, her nose struggling to take in the air she needed.

She drifted in and out of the dark, and then in between gradients of night as the sun set and the heavy snowclouds blanketed the stars. The air kept getting colder, so Teta was shuddering with it, so that her joints felt achingly tight with the promise of frost on the air.

"Who goes there!" called a voice from the pre-dawn twilight, startling Teta so much she almost rolled off the chocobo.

"Gregory Levigne!" shouted Gregory.

"Ride on!"

They rode farther, and Teta could heard the distant crashing of the ocean against the cliffs. As dawn broke, their destination loomed ahead. A fortress of crumbling black stone, with cannon ports pressing out towards the sea. Planks of wood and metal had been plastered here and there to reinforce the ruined fort.

Gregory slid off the side, then grabbed her by the shoulders and threw her to the ground. She hit against her shoulder, hard: fire scorched out, down her arm and into her throat. She screamed into the gag.

Rough hands pulled the gag away from her mouth. She gasped, in pain and in gratitude for the sweet freedom of breathing, and cold air flooded her lungs and throat, and Gregory pressed his foot against her chest.

"He called you Teta, Beoulve," Gregory said. "And you answered to it."

Teta's blood felt far colder than the winter air around her.

"Who are you?" Gregory asked, his sword in hand, his eyes wild.

What to say? She wasn't supposed to be here. Wiegraf had told her...this man was...

But the promised protection of the powerful meant nothing if your protectors weren't there when you needed them. She'd learned that lesson in the Academy, when the others had come for her where Alma couldn't see. Why was she still alive, right now?

"Alma Beoulve," she whispered.

"Yeah?" Gregory said. "So why'd you answer when he said Teta?"

"I..." Teta closed her eyes, searched for the right words. The words that would keep her alive.

"He's my lover," she said. She almost gagged. Calling her brother her lover, but...but why else would he cry out her name so fiercely? And why else would she respond in kind? It was the only thing she could do to hide.

"And he doesn't know your name?" Gregory said.

"That's what he calls me," Teta said.

"So what's his name?" Gregory asked.

"Delita," Teta said. "You heard me say it."

"What is he?" Gregory asked. "Duke? Baron? Maybe you decided to dirty yourself with a knight? Take a walk on the wild side?" His words were jagged, just like his eyes. He looked wild.

"He's not...he's..." This was a difficult lie to keep up, and her head still hurt.

"Foxe," Gregory said. "Have some fun."

Teta felt nauseating fear rise up in her like a fog. Foxe blinked in consternation behind Gregory, his eyes flickering between his commander and Teta on the ground. "You sure?" he said.

"If she wants to change her story, let me know," Gregory said.

Foxe's mouth spread into a leering grin, and he moved towards her with purpose, hands already reaching for her. Teta curled back against her bonds, shying away from him, as though there were any hope of escape now that even the feeble protection of her false name had been ripped away and-

And there was a shimmering, and Foxe dropped to the ground, moaning, and a red-headed woman towered over him.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Radia asked, in a voice at once sleepy and dangerous.

A moment's precarious silence. No one moved.

"Whoever this woman is, she's lying to us," Gregory said. "She tried to run."

"Yeah?" Radia stepped over Foxe's body, and glared into Gregory's face. "It's funny. I was awfully tired, but I _thought_ I heard Wiegraf order you to leave her."

Gregory's face spasmed with guilt. "You...you weren't awake!"

"I'm not like you," Radia said. "I'm a soldier. Not a coward who kills and rapes because they're scared."

"I didn't-!" Gregory hissed.

Radia turned away from him, and kicked Foxe in the stomach. Foxe moaned in pain, curling in on himself, and Radia reached down and drew his sword.

"I'm taking her inside," Radia said. "Any of you fuckers try anything, you die."

She moved towards Teta, and cut her free of her bonds. Teta gasped in pain as blood rushed back into her wrists and ankles. Radia helped her to her feet, and Teta was forced to lean on Radia as they hobbled towards the fort. Through all this, no one moved to stop her.

"Thank you," Teta whispered.

"Least I could do," Radia replied.

Radia helped her up a series of sloping rock steps, worn and broken from age and inattention. She led Teta across a rickety wooden bridge. A fat snowflake drifted down out of the sky as they crossed that creaking bridge. It landed, cold and wet, upon Teta's forehead. She shuddered at its touch.

Radia led them off the bridge, through the heavy wooden door secured with iron fastenings. A soldier lurked within, staring at them with confusion. Radia brushed past him, ignoring questions that Teta couldn't hear. Everything seemed to be fading into a mental fog. Her head pounded where Gregory had hit her.

They were in a closet of some kind, empty of anyone else, heaped with crates. Teta couldn't recall how they'd gotten there. Radia was speaking, but Teta couldn't hear her.

She broke down crying all at once, and pressed her face into the stinking leather of Radia's chestplate. Radia patted her awkwardly, and Teta barely noticed the feeble attempt at reassurance, because Foxe had been closing in and her shoulder hurt and her head hurt and Delita had been right there and she was supposed to be free right now why was she here _why was she here?_

She stopped crying at some point, pressing her damp and sticky face into the place where Radia's neck met her shoulder. The other woman smelled like fire and sweat and dirt and blood and something else, something that brought all those scents together and made them pleasant, like memories she hadn't made yet. She followed that scent back to calm, and back to thoughts that clicked together and made sense. Radia had her arm curled around her, fingers stroking her upper arm.

"Heiral, huh?" Radia said.

Teta stiffened, tried to pull away from Radia, and found that Radia wasn't letting her go. It wasn't a threatening gesture: Radia's grip around her tightened in comfort and companionship, and pulled her close.

"It's okay," Radia said.

No it wasn't. Nothing was okay.

"Teta," Teta whispered, and felt something crack in her. She'd disavowed the name for so long. Wiegraf's discovery had been a shock, but then, the threat had been in her mind. Now it was real. It's shadow still hung over her.

"And your brother?" Radia asked.

"Delita," Teta said.

"He's the one who killed Miluda," Radia mused.

Teta couldn't see Radia's face where she was, but there was nothing of danger or threat in the the woman. It was just like it had been back at the Plateau: for whatever reason, Teta felt safe here.

"I'm sorry," Teta said.

"Me too," Radia said.

"How'd you find out?" Teta asked.

"He told us. Told us who he was. Who you were." Radia chuckled. "Made a lot of sense, all at once. Why you were so..."

Teta didn't know what Radia intended to say. She didn't ask.

"The Beoulve," Radia said.

"Ramza?" Teta replied.

"He didn't kill me," Radia said. "He didn't kill anyone."

Teta said nothing, though her thoughts were sparking in a dozen different directions. First to Ramza and the day in the old Beoulve estate nearly Lesalia, then back to Wiegraf, back to the Plateau, back to Alma, back to the Academy.

"You really wouldn't?" Radia asked. "Even...even now?"

Harder now, wasn't it? When Foxe had loomed over her, and Gregory's sword had been pointed at her throat?

"Maybe I would," Teta admitted. God, the idea of slicing Foxe's throat, or plunging a blade into Gregory's chest...the idea of fighting her way free of this place, however bloody that path might be...it was a powerful temptation.

"But I..." She closed her eyes and buried herself against Radia's chest. "I shouldn't."

Because look what had happened, from so little? How enraged Wiegraf and Miluda had become, and Delita had come for her, and she had been taken by Gregory, and on and on and on, so many men and women hurt by this small fight, how many men and women and children killed and suffering in wars like this across Ivalice, across the world. How small was her pain and terror, beside it all.

"I don't know if I believe that," Radia said.

"I know," Teta said. "I...I don't blame you."

Things didn't seem quite as clear as they had on the Plateau. Teta still couldn't accept the horrors violence could wreak, but she could much better understand why such horrors might be necessary. So where did that leave her?

Radia left for a little while, locking the door behind her. She returned with a bowl of lukewarm oatmeal, and Teta ate it gratefully, shoveling the tasteless mush into her mouth until her stomach ached with it. The wind howled somewhere outside, and there was the low whispering hiss of snow upon stone.

"Sounds bad out there," Teta said.

"It is," Radia replied. "Should buy us some time, actually."

Teta chuckled, and then laughed harder at the baffled, almost indignant look on Radia's face. "Sorry," Teta said. "It's just...I'm probably hoping they keep marching, and you-"

Radia gave a low grunt that might have been a repressed snort. She seemed torn between amusement and anger.

"Why's this fort so important?" Teta asked.

"Lotta reasons," Radia said. "This powder room's one of them."

"Powder...?" Teta repeated. The word tickled some part of her mind, but she couldn't quite remember what it meant.

"Gunpowder," Radia said.

Teta jerked away from one of the crates, her head filled with tales of terrible explosions, of cannonfire and forts laid to ruin. Radia laughed. "Don't worry," she said. "These crates are sealed tight. You probably couldn't start something if you tried." Radia shrugged. "Stuff doesn't get used too much, since a mage can use it and blow their enemies to hell. But the fort's well-protected, and I guess it was supposed to do...something. If the Romandans came. We wanted the fort for the walls, but there's a lot of this stuff that got left behind."

"Mainly, though," Radia continued. "It's...it's the only way through the pass between Gallione and Fovoham. Nowhere else to run, if we lose it."

And how was Teta supposed to feel about that? About the idea of her kidnappers, tormentors, and would-be rapists slaughtered by the Hokuten? How many Foxes were in the ranks of the Corps? How many Gregorys? How many Miludas? How many Wiegrafs?

How many Radias?

There was a knock upon the door. "Radia-" came Gregory's voice, and Teta shied back from the door as a flash of electric fear numbed her fingers and toes. She scrambled against the far wall.

"I'll take the hand that opens that door!" Radia shouted, grabbing for her sword.

"It's Wiegraf," Gregory said.

Radia's eyes widened. She looked in shock at Teta, who felt her thoughts moving slow and sluggish. Gregory, who'd loomed over her with his sword pointed at her, who'd left the aching goose-egg atop her skull, was standing outside. But it was Wiegraf he wanted to talk about. Wiegraf, who'd treated her with such kindness, even after his sister's death.

Teta nodded slowly, and Radia unlocked the door in one swift move, and stepped back with her sword pointed towards the door. "Nice and slow!" she called.

The door creaked open, and Gregory came through with his hands raised.

"What do you want?" Radia demanded.

"We just got word," Gregory said. "Wiegraf's joined up with the units fighting to hold the pass. The Hokuten brought mage units with them. The snow's not slowing them down."

Even Teta knew that wasn't good. No one risked their mages in the field if they could help it, but...but these people had attacked Dycedarg. Jesus, had they killed him? Was that why the Hokuten were hunting them like this? Was Dycedarg dead? Wretched woman, not even sparing a thought to him after he fought to keep you safe, after-

"He sent word," Gregory said. "Your powers work on mages, too, yeah?"

"Most of the time," Radia said. She shot a cautious glance at Teta, then looked back to Gregory. "If I leave, she's coming with me."

Gregory laughed. It was an awful sound, jagged and wrong, like metal scraped against the grain. "Feel free," he said. "Take the noble bitch out into a blizzard, and hope the Hokuten don't kill her 'cause they think she's one of us."

Would the Hokuten really do that? No, stupid question, of course they would. Fighting their way through a blizzard, attacked on all sides...why wouldn't they? They'd have to assume anyone in front of them was an enemy. Hell, they might even kill her in the name of rescuing her.

"He's right," Teta mumbled. "It's...it's okay."

Radia looked back at her and locked eyes. Radia looked every tired, and a little bit scared. Scared of what, though? Or maybe that was a stupid question. There was an awful lot of be scared of.

Radia looked back at Gregory and nodded. "She stays in here," Radia said. "Foxe comes with me. No one touches her."

Gregory arched his eyebrows. "You want Foxe watching your back after what you did to him?" Gregory asked.

"I trust him out there more than I trust him in here," Radia said.

Gregory shrugged, and Radia turned back to Teta, placing her hands on Teta's shoulders. "I'll be right back," she said. Teta nodded, and Radia pushed Gregory out of the room and closed and locked out the door behind her. As they walked away, Teta heard Radia say, "Tell me _exactly_ what I'm dealing with."

Teta pressed her fingers to the faded runes on the wall, tried to remember the lessons they'd learned at the Royal Preparatory Academy—how to treat your inherent magic as a separate limb, how to imagine it moving and working in ways that normal limbs couldn't. The rune flickered, embers of light glowing for a moment along its curving length, and then faded again. Teta shook her head and curled back into the dark, her arms around knees.

Sometime later, the lock clicked, and Teta barely had time to take her feet before Radia entered the room, with a canteen in one hand and a bucket in the other. She put the bucket in the farthest corner, than offered the canteen to Radia

"Not much food left for anyone," Radia said. "Water's a little easier, but you can't exactly step out. Stay in here as long as you can. I think..." Radia closed her eyes. "One way or another, it's almost over."

Teta moved forwards, and wrapped her arms around the taller woman. Radia stiffened in her grasp, then relaxed. She buried her face in Teta's shoulder, and they held each other, weak and tired and frightened.

"Good luck," Teta said.

"You too," Radia replied.

Radia left the room again. Teta was alone.

She drank a little water. She used the bucket. She paced this powder room, wondering what had become of Dycedarg, Wiegraf, Ramza, Radia, Delita. She tried and failed to get the old runes working again. And eventually, tired and anxious and hungry, she slept.

She awoke to the sound of the key turning in the lock. She raised her head and shielded her eyes as the door swung open, the light blinding her, so all she could see were blurred shadows, but something was wrong, that wasn't Radia, that wasn't-

She cried in fear and rushed forwards, trying to slam the door closed, but Gregory shouldered past her and shoved her backwards. She stumbled, and hit the ground hard, adding a new aching bruise to the medley across her body.

She scrambled back as far as she could. Gregory didn't follow. His eyes were wide, the dark circles under his eyes emphasized by how pale and weak his face looked. Patchy stubble pattered his jawline.

"They're here," Gregory said.

Teta didn't know what to say, so she said nothing.

"The Hokuten," Gregory said. "Your brother, he...he's looking for you."

Delita? She couldn't fight the fierce shock of relief that warmed her insides, her sleepy, panicked brain forgetting everything in that moment. But her instincts took over, and she remembered the lie that had kept her alive. It had to be a Beoulve who had come.

"Let me go," Teta said, trying to speak with that careless confidence Alma and the other girls had, the easy authority that comes from living in a world that has almost always obeyed you. "I will see he treats you fairly."

Gregory laughed. It sounded like an animal being strangled. "If you were in my shoes, Beoulve," he asked. "Would you trust you?"

Teta opened her mouth to answer, and then remembered the woman wheezing and dying in that tent on the Plateau.

"You're never going to let me go," Teta whispered, and she started shaking, so hard she could barely stand. She leaned against one wall, trying to keep herself upright.

"If they stand aside-" Gregory said, with desperation in his voice.

"After what you did to Dycedarg?" she asked. She stared at his pale, miserable face. "You brought them here. You're the reason for all of this."

Gregory's face spasmed into a hateful glower. "I didn't send us home with empty pockets!" he shouted. "I didn't take the Marquis! I didn't bully and rape and torture my way to-" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "This isn't my fault," he muttered. "It's not...I didn't..."

He trailed off, and there was silence in the room.

"Radia?" Teta asked.

Gregory shook his head. "Never came back," he whispered. "No one came...fighting in the night, and the Hokuten are here, and-"

Gregory kept talking. Teta couldn't hear him. Radia, gone. Wiegraf, too. Who knew what had become of Delita and Ramza?

"Gregory!" someone shouted outside the door. "They're coming!"

Gregory stopped talking, and locked eyes with Teta. Teta swallowed. Her only hope for escape lay in Gregory's hands now. Everyone else was dead.

She nodded, and Gregory stepped back, and let her past him. She half-considered running, and almost laughed. Run through a fortress she didn't know, filled with who knew how many enemies, on the off-chance she could find her way through the snow to Hokuten soldiers who wouldn't cut her down as a suspected enemy. Hopeless. It all felt so hopeless.

The woman who'd called out to warn them was standing in an intersection a little ways down from them. Her arm was bandaged, and she was leaning heavily on a crutch, and every part of her ragged clothing seemed crusted with old food or old blood or something worse. "Left here," Gregory said, and left they went, past other wounded men and women, some slowly organizing supplies, some on bedrolls with glazed eyes, and it felt so much like the plague tents again, so much like those old scenes of violence and pain.

She reached the large door through which Radia had led her (When? When had that happened? How long since she'd been taken?), and Gregory shoved it open, and the cold rattled through the door and into her bones. Teta shuddered, and Gregory wrapped an army around her shoulders and his sword was out, gleaming just beneath her eyes.

"Coming out!" Gregory shouted, and shoved her outside, and the bright sunlight burned into her eyes and it took her a moment to see...

There, on the other end of the rickety wooden bridge, was Zalbaag, with his bastard sword drawn and a heavy brown cloak hanging down over his black armor. Argus was at his side, furs draped over him, an arrow nocked to his bow. Two men in Hokuten cloaks stood just behind them. The skies were grey overhead, and crisp snow drifted down from on high, slow and steady.

So close. She hadn't known rescue was so close.

"No closer!" Gregory shouted. "Or your sister's blood hits the snow!"

Argus raised his bow, and Zalbaag thrust a warning hand in front of him. "It's over!" Zalbaag called. "Let her go!"

"I want you gone, Hokuten," Gregory said. "Pull your men back from this fort."

Zalbaag shook his head. "You're up against the wall. Put down your sword and surrender. I'll see you treated fair."

"I've seen what you people do to your prisoners," Gregory said. "And we both know you're not gonna try anything with your sister's life in the balance. If you do, I'll blow a crater in the side of this god damn mountain. Back off."

"TETA!"

The cry took her by surprise: she twisted a little in Gregory's grasp, even as he cursed at her and struggled to pull her back. There, down beneath the bridge, she saw Delita and Ramza, swords in hand.

"An ambush!" Gregory cried, so loud it stung her ear. "You'll pay for this, Hokuten!"

"Argus, now!" Zalbaag cried.

Teta was struggling to keep her feat as the bridge creaked beneath her. She almost didn't hear the twang of the bow. Pointed lightning burst somewhere along her throat, and suddenly Teta was falling, tumbling through the air, tumbling through the whirling snow, hot and cold and dark and light and-


	24. Chapter 23: Nightmare

[thanks for reading, everybody! And remember, you can find more of my stuff at quickascanbe dot com]

 **Chapter 23: Nightmare**

 _...the historian always faces the same dilemma: what is history? It is undeniably a record of events, but which events, and how to record them? Even if we accept that all change is the providence of great, invisible forces, these forces act on men, and men react to them. It is a story: a tale of actors on a stage, performing for an audience, supported by many invisible hands, by long chains of events we can never fully grasp that led them to that moment, that action. Perhaps the historian's task is simply to make their best guess as to how that stage was set: to record the event, while recognizing the human and inhuman forces that led the actor thus._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Letter to an Adjunct Professor at the College of Dorter"_

This had to be a dream.

The feeling was familiar. We've all had dreams like that, right? The monster is closing in from behind, and you can't run fast enough to get away: you've slipped and fallen from your place atop the island in the sky, and now you plummet towards the ground with no hope of salvation from an airship of the long-ago. Death is closing in on you, horror and tragedy beyond what you've imagined, and in that moment of lurching, terrible fear you spasm into gasping, frightened consciousness, with your nightmares draining away into the night.

This had to be a nightmare, too. Watching the arrow fly, as Zalbaag's order echoed across the snow. Watching it strike Teta, so she slumped in her captor's arms. Watching the captor gasp and stagger backwards, and Teta falling from the wooden bridge and tumbling down, down, down...

Delita caught her. How had Delita caught her? He'd been standing right by Ramza's side just moments ago, but there he was, his sister in his arms, his teary eyes raised to Ramza's.

"Ramza!" he cried, and Ramza was jerked from his vertigo unreality, staggering towards Delita, and with every step and every bitter, moaning gust he felt the reality sink in a little more, because no nightmare had ever felt this clear or real. From the corner of his eye, he saw Argus loose another arrow: saw Teta's former captor stumble backwards with an arrow in his chest.

"Bastards!" shrieked the man who'd taken Teta. "You miserable-"

Another arrow in his chest. The man squealed, and crawled backwards, into the shadow of the door.

"Help!" Delita cried, as Ramza pressed his hands into the bloody wound, stared into Teta's pale face and glassy eyes, listened to her labored breathing-

Listened as she breathed no more.

The wind kept moaning. The snow kept falling. There were voices Ramza could almost hear, almost understand ("Reggie, get the rest of the troops in here. Lars, hold that door."). Teta's blood was on Ramza's hands. Teta, who he'd known for so long, his first shy kiss in the old estate outside of Lesalia under the heady influence of old wine. Teta, of the sound advice and the quiet strength and...and...

And she was dead.

"Teta," Delita whispered. "Teta, please..."

Delita pulled her closer. Ramza stared at her corpse as her blood dripped onto Delita's armor.

Delita set her gently down into the snow. He brushed an errant curl of hair from where it was plastered with blood against her forehead. He rose to his feet, and began to walk—towards that little rise that separated them from Zalbaag and Argus.

"Delita," Ramza mumbled, rising to his feet but unable to tear his eyes away Teta's dead face.

"Stand down, cadet!" barked Zalbaag.

The words jerked Ramza away from Teta, sent him stumbling after Delita, crunching his way through the snow. Zalbaag had descended a set of jagged steps near them, his bastard sword in hand. Delita kept moving, his own sword drawn. The sword Zalbaag had commissioned for him. It's twin was in Ramza's hand. When had Ramza drawn it?

"That's an order, cadet," Zalbaag growled, his face pale, and he raised Justice defensively. Justice, ha. What Justice would have needed Teta's death?

"Delita-" Ramza starting, not sure what he intended to say, and Delita whirled on him with his blade drawn, his face contorted in rage and grief with his eyes two livid flames in his tear-strewn face as the snow kept sighing down around them and Teta's corpse steamed beneath the bridge where she had fallen and the sword in Delita's hands was pointed towards Ramza.

"A mad dog," Argus grunted, and Delita whirled away and there was Argus on the lip of that higher ground, an arrow nocked to his bow, the arrow trained on Delita.

"There's no need for that," Zalbaag said, his voice shaking.

"How could you?" Ramza asked, staring between Argus and Zalbaag.

"She should never have been here," Argus snapped.

"So you killed her?" demanded Ramza.

"We're not negotiating with the men who cut down our brother," Zalbaag said, his eyes wide and bright and strange. "With the men who tried to take our sister. Or-"

"She was my sister," Delita whispered.

Delita was facing Zalbaag, His swordpoint had drooped to the ground. He seemed like he might collapse at any moment.

"She was my sister," Delita repeated. "And you...why?"

"Because we do not sell out the honor of the Hokuten for a common girl," Argus said.

"MY SISTER!" howled Delita, turning towards Argus with the blade lifted, and Argus pulled back his bowstring with his arrow trained on Delita and-

"Stand down, both of you!" Zalbaag said. "It was my order."

"Why!" shouted Ramza

"This is war!" Zalbaag shouted back. "People die!"

"You ordered-" Ramza started.

"You killed her!" Delita shrieked.

"I'd do it again," Argus said. "With or without the order."

They were interrupted by a thunderous explosion and distant shouts of alarm. Ramza's head jerked towards the sound of the blast, and saw smoke rising in the distance. The shouts were getting closer.

"Delita!" cried Zalbaag, and Ramza's head jerked away in time to see Delita hurtling towards Argus, and Argus loosed his arrow and Delita cut it from the air without missing a step, so the broken haft slid through the snow in front of Ramza, and in one bounding motion Delita had clambered up the stone wall that separated their dry moat from the higher ground where Argus stood and Argus was running and Delita was chasing him.

Zalbaag moved to follow. Ramza stepped in front of him.

"Out of my way," Zalbaag ordered.

"You killed her," Ramza said.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," Zalbaag said. He tried to move past Ramza, and Ramza stepped in front of him again.

"He cannot kill the Limberry Liason," Zalbaag said.

"Argus deserves to die," Ramza replied.

"Move!" bellowed Zalbaag.

"Or what?" Ramza asked.

Zalbaag half-raised his sword. Ramza started to raise his own.

"Commander!" came a distant shout. "Commander, the Corps-GAAAAAIE!"

"Keep them out of Zeakden!" roared the resounding baritone of Wiegraf Folles.

Ramza and Zalbaag snapped away from each other and raced up the steps, almost in sync. When they reached the higher ground above the dry moat that surrounded the fort, they found Wiegraf waiting for them, a knight's corpse steaming at his feet. The sounds of battle were very close now.

"You should be dead," Zalbaag said.

"I had a war to win," Wiegraf said. "I can't afford to die."

"Your rebellion ends here," Zalbaag said.

"Does it?" Wiegraf asked.

"Ramza, with me," Zalbaag said.

But Ramza was not looking at his brother. He was looking at the footprints in the snow. The footprints Argus and Delita had left behind them.

"Ramza!" Zalbaag shouted.

"Choose now, Beoulve," Wiegraf said.

Ramza didn't have to choose. He was already moving, away from Zalbaag and Wiegraf, through the falling snow, chasing his friends as they tried to kill each other.

"Ramza!" howled Zalbaag, moving to follow, and there was the resounding clash of clanging steel.

"Your fight is with me!" shouted Wiegraf, and bright light and cacophonous booming blasts rent the air and Ramza was running for all he was worth, trying to reach Delita before he lost another friend.


	25. Chapter 24: A World Gone Mad

(The story continues, my friends! And if you're looking for more content, check out quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 24: A World Gone Mad**

"A sword again a bow, and you've the gall to think you can win!" called Argus, loosing another arrow. Delita rolled aside, and the arrow buried itself in the snow behind him. "Blood will tell! Common idiocy from a common man."

"I don't want your words!" Delita cried, plunging towards him, zigzagging with each step so it was damn near impossible to get a bead on him. "I want your blood!"

"As if I'd bare my throat to you, dog!" Argus shouted. He loosed another arrow, and ducked behind the corner of the fort.

No, Argus Thadolfas was not going to die today. Not when the glory and power that were his by right were finally within reach. The long, black road from oblivion was behind him: the last scion of House Thadolfas was the trusted right hand of the Marquis in a major military operation, and victory would see his grandfather's sins forgotten. Everything would be restored to its rightful place. The world would make sense again. No more Death Corps. No more Delitas.

It was rabies. That was obvious to any man of sense, wasn't it? How the infection had spread, slow and sure? The common man spat upon his God-ordained place and tried to break the divine order that protected kingdom, king, and commoner alike. They tore the world apart and then had the unmitigated gall to act offended when divine will turned against them. They barked and growled and snapped when their masters pulled tight upon their leashes, trying to rein them in.

Like Delita, now. Barking and praying, hounding him through the ruin of Zeakden. Argus loosed another arrow, and Delita snapped up a hunk of scrapwood so the arrow sank into his makeshift shield. He hurled this plank at Argus: it fell far short, but masked Delita in an explosion of snow, and Argus darted away again, stepping nimbly through the frost.

Of course, Delita was only a symptom of this problem. The dog didn't know better. It couldn't. A dog was always the reflection of the master. So what did such a dog as Delita say about Ramza Beoulve?

Ramza. A well-meaning idiot ill-deserving of his good fortune. A bastard Beoulve whose father had been kind enough to make him a full-fledged member of his proud house. And how magnificently he failed to live up to his responsibilities. Taking to the battlefield and refusing to kill the rebels who had tried to kill the Marquis. Promising them safety and security when they had tried to tear all Ivalice apart and remake it in their blasphemous image. And letting his dog act the part of a man. Letting him imagine himself the equal of the company he kept. He rubbed elbows with the Beoulves, he boasted as his comrades a Daravon and a Thadolfas, and did he act grateful? No. He acted entitled. He spoke down to Argus, Beowulf, and even Ramza. Allow a dog a seat at your table, and you have no one but yourself to blame when he eats your food.

Argus slipped onto a crumbling parapet, crouched slow against the snowy stone as Delita plunged around the corner. Argus loosed another arrow, but gave himself away in a shower of snow from his hiding place at the last moment. He cursed to himself as Delita whirled towards him: the arrow intended for his throat instead plunged into his shoulder, and Delita screamed with more rage than pain and sprinted towards him again, kicking up geysers of snow with every step. Argus leapt down, hugging the wall of the fort as he circled away from Delita.

The Thadolfas family had learned these lessons the hard way, hadn't they? When that common squire had cut his grandfather's throat, and been made a knight for it. What choice had they given that dog? Dishonor or death. What did you expect of a cornered dog, except to fight? Fool that his grandfather was, he'd forgotten that rule. Never give the dog a hope of fighting. Never give it reason to turn. He imagined his grandfather was someone like Ramza, ignorant of the dangers that surrounded him, of how easy it was to slip and fall.

Argus knew. Argus knew all too well. Knowing who he was, knowing the storied blood that coursed through his veins, and having to beg for so much as a role as the Marquis' squire. That was no place for a man of House Thadolfas, shouldering his way through commoners who looked at him as though he were beneath them.

Delita was the worst of all. The condescending tone he took, as though he understood Argus' struggles. The way he equated them. Argus still remembered Dorter: Delita had the unmitigated gall to _forgive_ Argus for his anger, as though that were his place. And his reasoning? That Delita would have done the same, were it Ramza. That somehow he and Argus were equals. _Equals._ A nameless commoner and the son of House Thadolfas, equals, and what could Argus say when he needed what little grace Ramza could provide just to keep looking for the Marquis. So he'd had to bite his tongue and make nice, and the man could fight and he was smart enough but he had made the same mistake as his father, and as Ramza. Treat a dog like an equal, and it forgets its place

The world had stopped making sense, but it could still be fixed. Look around. The dogs were being put down. Argus was the Special Limberry Liason, trusted with the will of the Marquis. So close now, and he would do whatever he had to to keep climbing, just as he had by pretending Delita didn't sicken him.

Just as he had when he'd loosed his arrow into Teta's throat.

He regretted that. Why deny it? She was uncomfortably familiar with her betters, but that was not her fault when Ramza and Alma encouraged such appalling behavior, and she behaved with the grace and deference befitting her station. He had actually enjoyed her company, that raucous night in Igros those months (lifetimes!) ago. He wished she hadn't had to die.

But the mission of the Hokuten—this divine mission to civilize and bring order to the disparate, lawless rabble who refused to be grateful for all that was done for them—brooked no argument. Beside, it was the fruit of the master's idiocy again. If they had not allowed their dogs to forget their places, Teta would never have been here. There would have been no hostage.

He crouched low, and loosed another arrow as Delita rounded the corner. Delita hurled himself to one side, just too late: the arrow sank into his thigh, and Delita hit the snow in a spray of blood and cursing. He lunged to his feet, limped towards Argus, and Argus loosed three arrows in quick succession.

Delita cut the first from the air: the second found his sword arm. The third found his chest.

The sword dropped from Delita's numb fingers, as his steaming blood hissed down into the snow. Argus reached back for another arrow, and found his quiver empty. That just about figured, didn't it? Delita didn't even have the decency to die properly.

Argus drew the short sword from his side, and made his crunching way towards Delita. Delita, who acted like they were equals, who refused to understand his place in the world, who had tried to kill him just like that damn squire had killed his grandfather, one of those criminal madmen who would upturn the natural order for their bizarre, blasphemous purposes and see families like House Thadolfas laid low. He wondered what his grandfather's killer had looked like. Like Delita, he imagined. All that rage and self-righteous gall.

"Bastard," hissed Delita, trying and failing to rise from his kneeling position, as blood trickled down from his wounds. "You...fucking...monster...I'll...kill...!"

Argus laughed. "You'll kill me?" he repeated. "You can't stop me. You couldn't save her. You're sitting at the feet of the Beoulves, and you think that makes you one of them. You do what they allow. And that's why you're going to die here, just like your sister."

Argus raised his sword.

 _Thhkt._

What a curious sound. Like a sword slipping through flesh and fur. Why did Argus feel so much colder? Why...

He was face-up in the snow, and did not remember falling. Something ached, deep inside him. It was hard to breathe, and Ramza was standing above him with a bloody sword in his hand. Whose blood? Whose...

"N...no!" gasped Argus. "How...how!"

Argus tried to rise, and his back exploded in spasming pain. He fell back into the snow, gasping, staring at Ramza. No no no no no that wasn't right Ramza was a fool and a coward but he couldn't be such a monster he couldn't choose a commoner dying in the cold over a fellow noble that didn't make sense _that didn't make sense_.

"You...!" hissed Argus, and Ramza was stepping over him, moving towards Delita, stepping over him like he was nothing, and Argus Thadolfas was not nothing, Argus Thadolfas had tumbled into a broken world and clawed his way back to his rightful place, seizing every opportunity until he was one of the Marquis' most trusted men, and the name of Thadolfas was going to be restored to glory so how could Argus die here?

He grabbed at Ramza's leg. Ramza jerked in his grasp (and fresh fire flowed from the wound in Argus' back as he clung to Ramza), nearly fell, then righted himself and turned to stare at him with wide, terrified eyes.

So scared, so uncertain, so lucky and so ignorant of it. Men like Ramza would ruin everything: would treat the dogs like men, until their teeth found their throats. Thadolfas. Beoulve. Maybe all Ivalice, brought to ruin by such fools. There were tears in Argus' eyes now.

"You...child...!" Argus sobbed. "You...stupid..."

It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. The world was wrong. The world was...

Darkness, for a moment. And then the maelstrom.


	26. Chapter 25: Collapse

(two chapters until the end of Part One! Thanks so much for sticking with me, guys. And remember: if you're starved for content, all you have to do is head to quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 25: Collapse**

 _...those forts were marvels, you know. Zeakden, Fovogard, Rhanagun. When it seemed the Romandan navy—the uncontested rulers of the sea—might bring their full might to bear against Ivalice, we rebuilt and refurbished those old constructs, outfitting them with the latest cannons and gunpodwer, in mere months. But like so many other wonders of the war, they were forgotten. They decayed, and fell by the wayside, and became another threat to the peace in those days when the lions growled at each other. It's an important lesson: the past is potent, and if you do not watch it warily, its arrows may find you yet._

 _Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

"You...stupid..."

Argus' glaring eyes glazed over. He exhaled one rattling, blood-flaked breath, and slumped motionless into the snow. Ramza stared down at his former friend, with his armor and furs shredded and soaked with the same blood that was now pooling beneath him, pouring from the wound Ramza had carved into his back.

 _I didn't have a choice._

Ramza had stumbled around the edge of the fort and found Argus standing over Delita, sword raised for the kill, and Ramza had been moving forward with his sword still drawn and his mouth opening to shout something—a protest, an order, maybe just a scream of fear, he didn't know—and then through the cold and the wind and the clanging, shouting medley of the battle all around he had heard those words-

 _...die here, just like your sister._

And he had driven his sword into Argus' back, his mind black with rage.

 _I didn't have a_ -

He'd had a choice. Just as he had fighting Wiegraf and Miluda, just as he had when they'd found Ivan Mansel, just as he had when they'd faced the Corps upon the Plains with Argus bleeding upon his rock.

He'd saved Argus. He'd _killed_ Argus.

 _He killed Teta. He was going to kill Delita. He led Miluda and the others...he..._

He'd been Ramza's friend. They had laughed together, fought together, drank together, saved each others' lives, and now...

The sword fell from Ramza's numb fingers. He made no move to pick it up. He kept staring down at the man he had killed. The friend he had killed.

He heard crunching in the snow behind him. He raised his head, and found Delita standing next to him, staring down at Argus' corpse. His eyes were glazed, as blood dripped from his arrow wounds.

"Should...should treat you," Ramza said.

Delita turned on his heel and limped back the way he had come, tracing his way through the bloodstains and the churned snow, leaving a wake of fresh blood behind him.

"Delita," Ramza said, but Delita kept stumbling. Ramza took a step after him, then hesitated, looking back at Argus' corpse.

Teta, dead. Argus, dead. Maybe Beowulf, too if Reis couldn't save him. If it were Balbanes, this wouldn't have happened.

 _Zalbaag gave the order._

He could feel the world coming apart around him. Everything felt shaky and unstable. Everything...

Ramza stumbled, as the shaking increased. A cacophonous _boom_ sounded through the air, and fire and smoke rose up from one section of the fortress.

Magic? Gunpowder? Hadn't Gregory said something about...

"Delita!" Ramza shouted, sprinting after his friend, and there was another explosion, another plume of smoke as the roof of the fortress sank in, sending stones clattering to the ground in little puffs of snow, and the acrid smell of gunpowder was on the air, harsh and cloying against Ramza's nose. A section of wall in front of him blasted outwards, a horizontal column of fire and fury. Ramza raised his hands to his mouth, coughing as he stumbled through the dust and nearly fell over fallen debris, his face too warm from the heat of the explosion, is back chilled by the falling snow.

He passed through the smoke and found Delita limping on in front of him, every footprint he'd left rimmed by fresh-fallen blood. Ramza followed as best he could, coughing his way through the smoke. More and more of the fort gave way in bone-shaking blasts: Ramza could barely keep his feet.

There, just ahead: Delita knelt in the snow. For a moment, Ramza stared, unable to make sense of what he was seeing. Then the moment passed, and in the mirage shimmer of heat, Ramza saw her in her brother's arms. Teta, peaceful, as though she were sleeping. Teta, who he'd failed to save.

The snow kept falling, even as the fortress crumbled. Delita was bowed in the snow, his sister's corpse in his arms. Ramza stayed where he was, cold and hot and useless.

"Delita," Ramza said. "We can't-"

The section of fortress above them gave a rumble, like thunder on the horizon. The rickety wooden bridge snapped, and collapsed downwards. It landed at an angle in a spray of snow, just between Ramza and Delita, forcing Ramza back a step.

"Delita!" Ramza shouted, and then the fortress in front of him exploded outwards in a gargantuan geyser of fire and rubble. A wall of heat and force smashed into Ramza, carried him off his feet-

And Ramza thought no more.


	27. Chapter 26: Nasty Little Words

(only one chapter left until the end of Part 1! Thanks for reading so far, everyone. If you've like what you've read, be sure to check out my other stuff at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 26: Nasty Little Words**

. _..of course, each of the seven states maintained their own armies, but by the time of the War of the Lions the Hokuten and the Nanten were the undisputed powers of Gallione. Barinten's Khamja and the Church's Templars might have been the strongest warriors in Ivalice, but they could not match the vast war machines of the White and Black Lions. The last army to come close to rivaling them had been the patchwork Haruten, with commanders and recruits gathered from Limberry and Zeltennia, but hard fighting exhausted their ranks and the last shred of their power was broken when the King censured them at War's end for their hands in atrocities in both Ivalice and Ordallia, Of curious note is that the Haruten were condemned for war crimes even in areas where they did not operate—areas principally controlled by the Hokuten and the Nanten..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Larger Consequences of the 50 Years' War"_

Everything hurt.

That was the first thing Ramza was conscious of. His joints felt hollow and weak. He could feel his neck protesting the slightest motion, taut and tense. Deep pains throbbed up at him out of his chest as the muscles in his shoulders and thighs trembled and groaned. And his chest...nothing was right there, weak and broken, little cracks of pain radiating out with every motion.

And that was before he remembered.

His eyes fluttered open—he knew better than to try and rise—and found an unfamiliar cottage all around him. He was reclining against several pillows atop a large bed against one wall, so he was almost sitting up. The place was spread out before him: heavy stone walls and rough wooden furniture. A little dining room was just in front of him, with an alcove to one side that might have been a kitchen tucked just out of view. Beyond the dining room was a salon, with sunken couches and chairs. To one side was another little alcove—the bathroom, Ramza assumed—and to the other was a heavy wooden door he assumed led outside.

Ramza did not know this cottage. He did not know how he had come to be here. The last thing he remembered was the final, spectacular collapse of Fort Zeakden, Delita and Teta lost among the rubble and the flames.

He thought about rising, and the very idea sapped what little energy was left from his aching bones. He sank against the rather luxurious mattress—this thing felt ever better than the one he'd had back in the Beoulve Manor—and a wave of nausea rose up from an aching spot in the back of his head. He shut his eyes as the world spun, trying not to gag.

Hurt. Where was he? Where was anyone, everyone? Where...

The door creaked open. Ramza opened his eyelids, then started, jerking backwards in the bed so his body ached and his head spun, and Ramza fought that feeling as he cast his head from side to side, looking for a weapon, and-

"Easy, Ramza," said the red-headed woman who'd fought against him at the Plateau. "Easy." She dropped the sack she was holding and lifted her hands to show they were empty. "What do you remember?"

"I...I don't..." Ramza shook his head. Other memories were intruding onto his thoughts, like shadows against a bright sun, hazy and blurry. "Zeakden and...what?"

"It's okay," she said. "It's your head. Part of the fort hit you, when it blew. Bandage on the back. Feel it?"

Ramza lifted a protesting arm and hesitantly put his fingers against the back of his head. He met the soft linen of a bandage.

"I'm not much of a healer," she said. "I did the best I could, but I think you're having trouble...you've been in and out of consciousness."

In and...yes, it was coming back now, in snippets and flashes. He remember a shoulder digging into his chest, as the snow sighed down around them. Someone had slung him across their shoulders. He remembered a campfire, and hands probing for damage as he moaned in protest. He remembered...

So hard to remember. But it was her face, watching him in the firelight, making sure he wasn't dying.

"Thank you," Ramza whispered.

She shook her head. "It's...it's what you'd have done, right?" Radia asked.

Ramza didn't answer. How could he? He'd killed a man—not just any many, but Argus Thadolfas, who he'd saved upon the Plains, who he'd comforted in a moment of weakness in the dark of the Mage's Mystery. He'd done it to save Delita's life, and now...

"Did anyone..." Ramza cleared his throat. "Anyone besides...us?"

"I don't know," she said. "I...don't wanna ask too many questions, y'know? Have people wondering..."

"I...yeah." Ramza trailed off, staring at the woman who'd been part of a revolutionary army, who'd tried to kill him, who he'd last seen stumbling away across the Plateau with all her companions dead by the hands of Ramza's friends.

"I didn't see," she said. "Did...did you rescue Teta, or-"

Ramza saw her falling again, with that arrow in her neck. He shut his eyes and shook his head.

"Oh," she sighed, and said nothing else. Ramza kept his eyes shut, trying not to see Teta falling, or Argus collapsing into the bloodsoaked snow, or the fort falling around Delita...

Ramza didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until a loud curse woke him. He blinked awake and found the red-headed woman in front of the fireplace, stirring a black pot set over the fire and sucking on a burnt finger.

"Are you..." he slurred, fighting off the crushing wave of exhaustion. "You okay?"

"Yeah," the woman mumbled around her thumb. She kept stirring the pot. "Stew for you. Thin. I don't want you throwing up again."

"I..." Ramza trailed off. "Again?" She nodded. Ramza felt a creeping flush of embarrassment in his cheeks. "I'm sorry," he said.

"It happens."

Silence, as she ladled the soup. The fire cast her wiry figure in sharp relief. A long green tunic hugged the contours of her body, pulled tight around her waist by a leather cord. It was odd, not to see her in her armor.

"You knew...?" Ramza started, and found he couldn't say Teta's name. It caught in his throat and felt like it was choking him. "Her?" he finished.

She nodded. "I...we talked, before you guys..." She closed her eyes. "Before."

Before the Plateau, and Miluda. So much lost.

"Who are you?" Ramza asked.

She looked up at him at last. "Radia," she said.

Ramza's throat felt very dry. There, on a little table near him, was a ceramic mug. He reached out with a clumsy hand, focused on his fingers and managed to wedge them under the handle. He lifted the mug from its resting place, pressed it against his lips in one swift move, and drank greedily. Water dribbled down his chin, staining his bare chest.

"I think your brother's alive," Radia said, rising from the fire with a steaming bowl in her hands. "I'd probably have...people would be talking, if he wasn't."

Ramza should feel glad about that, right? Glad that his brother was alive. Glad that the man who had ordered Teta's death was...

Radia brought the stew to Ramza and helped him to sit up, propping him back against the pillows. He took the bowl in his weak hands, felt them shaking with the effort. He sipped a salty, savory broth, felt a chunk of some vegetable he couldn't identify bumping against his nose. He ate too fast, choked, coughed, and spattered food across his blankets.

"Sorry," he mumbled miserably.

"It's fine," Radia said, grabbing a cloth, wiping his face and the blanket clean. "Eat more."

He ate, slowly but steady, and when he set the empty bowl down upon the nearby table he felt a little stronger for it. Radia sat at the foot of the bed, bracing herself on her knees.

"What happened?" Ramza asked. "How did you...find me?"

Radia shrugged. Ramza felt it in his feet. "I was helping Wiegraf fight the Hokuten," Radia said. "Hitting them as they came through the pass, trying to make them...but then the fortress was blowing, and...and I ran back, trying to..." Her hands tightened into fists. "You were the only one I found."

Silence. Ramza stared past her, at the fire. Radia stared straight ahead, at the wall.

"What happened to her?" Radia asked.

Again that awful vision, Teta tumbling through the snow with her hair wild in all directions. "Shot," Ramza croaked. "Shot by...by my friend, and he didn't even, it wasn't, it was Zal, he ordered-!"

Faster, faster, faster, and there were tears in his voice, and he shut his eyes against them. He didn't want to cry in front of this woman, who'd already seen him so weak and so pathetic.

"Did you see Wiegraf?" Radia asked.

"Fighting my brother," Ramza said. "I don't know if..."

"Yeah," Radia said. "What about...what about her brother?""

Ramza closed his eyes against that terrible guilty grief. "They were...they were right by the fort, when it..."

Silence again. Their faces loomed against the darkness of Ramza's eyelids. Delita, as he'd looked at the end, hollow with grief. Teta, confused and then calm, as death had taken her. Argus, cursing and raging with blood on his lips. Zal, with those wild, strange eyes. Wiegraf, calm and resolute.

All gone? All dead? Was there anyone left?

He heard the click of a key in a lock. He felt a sudden movement, the bed shifting as Radia rocketed to her feet. He opened his eyes.

The man who entered the room was dangerous.

It was the first word that leapt to Ramza's mind. It was not the armor he wore (a mesh of chainmail and dark plate) or the sword at his side that made him seem so fearsome. He was small—shorter than Ramza, a little shorter than Radia, too—and he wore an expression of genial confusion. Lank white hair was stuck to his forehead, and a prominent handlebar mustache of the same ivory white gleamed on his upper lip beneath a bulbous nose. The lips smiled easily, but the eyes...

Those green eyes _boiled._ There was an intense intellect behind those eyes, appraising everything they fell upon, showing not the faintest hint of surprise. And the way he walked...he rolled from step to step with the languid grace of a panther, a predator who could burst into sudden, terrible movement at any moment. Together, eyes and stride gave the impression of a dangerous beast at rest.

The man had stopped walking, but those hunter's eyes were fixed on Ramza.

"I am bound by blood to welcome you back," said the man, a Limberry brogue rolling his syllables together. "Whatever foolishness you do. But I will not welcome your fugitive friends. Get out." He was in the kitchen now, and there was a knife in his hand that Ramza was quite sure hadn't been there before.

Before Ramza could say anything, Radia had shifted, so her body was between the man and Ramza.

"He's not from the Corps, Dad," she said.

"Oh?" Radia's father replied. "So he's just a strange man you brought home without asking."

"What if he was?" Radia asked. "I'm old enough-"

Her father laughed. "Old enough," he scoffed. "Old enough to risk open rebellion against the crown, and for what? What cause were you willing to kill for?" He shook his head. "You're a child yet, Radia."

"I'm not-!" Radia started.

"But you are not the topic of discussion." Radia's father looked past her, back to Ramza. "Not an idiot rebel, so who the hell are you?"

"Ramza, sir," Ramza said.

"And how do you know my daughter, Ramza?"

Ramza had no idea how to answer.

"Beoulve, Dad," Radia said. Ramza glanced towards her, saw her watching her father warily. "Ramza Beoulve."

Surprise broke the dangerous fire of her father's eyes. He blinked, stared first at her and then at Ramza and then back again.

"Beoulve," he muttered. "Beoulve?" He shook his head. "By the Saint," he said. "You rebelled against Larg and you brought a Beoulve _into my house_?"

He hurtled over the counter, faster than Ramza would have believed possible, and Radia moved towards him and there was that strange shimmering magic and Radia sank to one side, trembling, and her father was moving towards Ramza with that knife in hand and Ramza half-raised his aching arms in defense and then let them drop away, because what was the point of fighting back after everything he'd done and everything he'd failed to do?

Radia's father stopped suddenly in front of him, still within easy striking distance of that black knife.

"Defend yourself, boy," he said.

Ramza shook his head, barely aware he was doing so. Radia's father gave him a puzzled once-over.

"He saved me!" Radia cried weakly, from her place slumped against the wall.

"More the fool he!" her father snapped, but his mouth was twisted thoughtfully to one side. "You saved her?" he asked.

"No," Ramza said.

"Ramza!" shouted Radia.

"No?" repeated her father.

"No," Ramza said. "I just...I didn't want to kill her, and...and when her captain, I didn't..."

Her father considered Ramza for a little while, then took a step back, glancing towards his daughter. "This seems like a story worth the hearing," he said. "But not sober."

He dug around in a pantry until he found a glass bottle, and began pouring drinks. Radia rose unsteadily towards her feet, eyes flickering between Ramza and her father. Her father dragged two chairs to the edge of the bed, shoved a glass into Ramza's hand, and took a seat.

"How do you know my daughter, Beoulve?" her father asked.

"I..." Where was Ramza even supposed begin?

"The fort a little ways north of here," Radia said, standing just behind her father, her fingers curling and uncurling.

"Ah, that business in the swamp," he grunted. "Of course you were there." He shot his daughter a venomous glance. "And why is she under the mistaken impression you saved her life?"

Slowly, hesitantly, Ramza tried to tell the story. He failed: he kept losing track and having to go back, and he found he still could not bear to repeat Delita or Teta's names. He called them "my friend" and "his sister." But the more he talked the harder it was to stop, until he was going back further, to that first meeting with Miluda and Wiegraf, and that took him to his second meeting with Miluda and his first meeting with Radia in that boiling swamp, to that frightful duel with Wiegraf and the frozen hell of Zeakden and Ramza's sword in Argus' back.

At some point during the story, Radia's father had pulled out a pipe and packed it tight. It smelled rather sweet as he puffed and listened, his eyes glittering.

"What say you, Radia?" he asked. "Any holes in his story?"

"None I know," she said. "And what Teta told me..."

"Teta," he repeated. "The girl." He puffed his pipe. "You're an odd one, Beoulve. A man who spares his enemies and kills his friends."

"Dad-" Radia said.

"My daughter protests," her father grunted. "Do you?"

"No," Ramza said. He could have subdued Argus, but he hadn't wanted to. He had wanted to tear into the man who had sunk an arrow into Teta's throat. Who had been about to do the same to Delita. And now they were all dead, ash in that great fire.

"When are you heading home?" her father asked.

It took a moment for Ramza to make sense of the question. He understood the individual words, but lost the larger meaning. "When am I..." He felt a flash of bright rage that knocked the cobwebs from his thoughts. He straightened up in bed, his anger giving him a surge of strength that blasted away weakness and pain. "Never," he whispered.

"Never," repeated Radia's father. "Why?"

"After what they did?" Ramza demanded.

"And what precisely did they do?" her father asked.

"It was Dycedarg's plot that started this!" roared Ramza, his throat aching with it. "And Zal gave the order! He killed...she was one of us!"

Radia's father took another puff on his pipe. "No, Ramza," he said, after a moment. "They would not let an enemy army hold their interests hostage for one of their servants. Alma's lady-in-waiting. Not their sister."

"After everything-"

"Lucavi take me, boy," the older man sighed. "How can you be a Beoulve and be this sheltered? What manner of man takes to the battlefield with blade in hand and tries not to kill? Did you really think your family would sacrifice their interests for the sake of a servant?"

Ramza didn't answer. Radia's father set down his pipe and glanced towards his daughter. "I take it he doesn't know our name?" he asked. Radia looked down at her hands and didn't say anything. Her father sighed again and rose to his feet. He offered Ramza his hand. "Geoffrey Gaffgarion," he said.

Ramza stared at the man in front of him, smiling a little beneath his imposing mustache. His eyes flickered away from the older man to Radia, still staring fixedly down at her hands.

"Gaffgarion...of the Haruten?" Ramza said.

"Formerly," Gaffgarion said. "Then again, no one's of them these days, eh?"

"You..." Ramza pulled away from the man, shaking his head. "The things you did-"

"First of all, boy," grunted Gaffgarion. " _I_ didn't do anything. I was charged with knowingly aiding war criminals in avoiding justice. Which is absolutely true, but it brings me to my second point, which is why I got off with a discharge and am not rotting in prison."

"What do you..." Ramza started, trailing off as he realized he was unsure what he was asking.

Gaffgarion's smiled widened. "How many stories have you been told now?" he asked. "About your brothers, and the Corps, and the Hokuten?"

Stories like Gustav being responsible for the taking of the Marquis, all by himself. Stories like discharging the Corps without pay to protect the interests of all Ivalice, not just Larg and the Hokuten. Stories like Zalbaag doing anything to get Teta back.

"Someone in Ivalice had to take the fall for what we'd done during the war," Gaffgarion continued. "It was the only way to broker a peace with the Ordallians. So the Haruten command took the fall for every crime Ivalice stood accused of, at the behest of king and country." He chuckled. "And of course, at the promise of gil and favors, when things had settled down."

"You let them dishonor you for money?" Ramza asked.

Gaffgarion guffawed. "Dishonor!" he exclaimed. "You don't really believe that tripe, do ya?"

"Of course I do!" Ramza shouted. "I'm a Beoulve!"

"So're your brothers," Gaffgarion said. "Do they seem honorable to you?"

Ramza felt his anger collapsing in on itself. The pain and dizziness surged in like the tide, and he sank back against his pillows.

"What are you doing, Dad?" Radia demanded.

Gaffgarion shrugged. "I have some contracts to straighten out nearby" he said. "Thought I'd check on the place, make sure it was still standing. I didn't expect-"

"No, Dad," Radia hissed. "What are you doing to him?"

Gaffgarion laughed. "Doing?" he asked. "Besides letting him sleep in _my_ bed?" His eyes glittered. "I'm making a point."

"What point?" Radia growled.

"The same point _you_ keep refusing to hear," Gaffgarion retorted. "This idiot notion that there's a right cause to kill for—or, worse, that there's a way to fight on a battlefield without blood on your hands." He turned baleful eyes on Ramza. "What you call honor is a nasty little word designed to keep idealistic fools like you in line," Gaffgarion said. "Your brothers use it so they can pretend their hands are cleaner than the men they fight. What are those fancy swords of yours? Justice and Service, right?"

Ramza didn't answer. Gaffgarion's eyes blazed. "The powerful do not serve those beneath them," Gaffgarion said. "They are served _by_ them. Mind, it's a mutually-beneficial arrangement. Under the aegis of their powerful protectors, their servants are safe. The rulers command the obedience of those they rule, and the ruled benefit from the power and authority of their ruler. Service is a nasty little word that covers an unpleasant truth. Ruler or ruled, all the world runs on one principle: you use, and are used. And do you know what you call it when you're used in the way your ruler wants?" Gaffgarion chuckled. "Honor. Nasty little word, eh?"

"You're wrong," Radia whispered.

"Am I?" Gaffgarion sneered. "I've been keeping tabs on you and your friends, oh daughter mine. One of your commanders had a nice racket going in Dorter, didn't he?" Gaffgarion snorted. "I bet he called it justice. Revenge against the kingdom that had wronged him."

"He was wrong!" Radia barked.

"Only because he got too big for his boots," Gaffgarion countered. "Took the Marquis, and his death warrant was signed right there, because the nobles won't let you kill one of their own. They can't. Their order demands that any uprising be crushed, because it threatens their power. The rulers can't exist if the ruled won't be ruled. Just like you and your friends."

"That's...what?" Radia breathed.

"Your _justice_ ," Gaffgarion spat. "Killing soldiers just like you so you get the power you deserve." Gaffgarion shook his head. "Justice is a nasty little word you use to pretend your violence isn't violence. That it's better somehow. Cleaner. It's not." He grabbed at his glass and took a swift pull.

Through all of this, Ramza was silent. The words echoed across some vast gulf inside of him—the gulf that had been torn into him when Teta had been taken, that had widened when he'd heard of Argus' betrayal, when Miluda had died in front of him and Beowulf had bled on the side of the hill, that had yawned open to a gaping chasm when Teta had fallen from that bridge. Nothing felt right anymore. Nothing made sense. Justice. Service. Honor. Was Gaffgarion really wrong?

"So what do you believe?" someone asked. It took Ramza a moment to realize that he was the one who'd spoken.

Gaffgarion shrugged. "I believe I'm good at killing," Gaffgarion said. "I don't believe in these easy lies, so I see things a lot clearer than the rabble. That makes me valuable. The rulers use me, and I prosper from it, because I don't pretend I'm not getting used."

Ramza shook his head. "That's not...how can you live like that?"

Gaffgarion grinned. "The reason I'm still alive is _because_ I live like that."

"You're wrong," Radia whispered.

"Am I?" Gaffgarion asked. "Look around you, Radia. Look what your so-called nobility bought you. Far as I know, you're the only survivor of Zeakden. And were your friends really so noble? How many were rapists and murderers and kidnappers? Which doesn't really do much to distinguish them from the Hokuten-" He gestured towards Ramza. "-as your noble friend here learned. All your talk of honor and justice, and what did it get you?"

Radia closed her eyes, her jaw clenched. Gaffgarion studied his daughter for a long time, then shrugged, and turned back to Ramza.

"So what matter honor?" Gaffgarion asked. "You were born to good fortune, boy. Don't throw it away over a matter of childrens' stories. Go home."

"I..." Ramza closed his eyes again, remembered his time in Dycedarg's room, after Teta had been taken. Promises from Dycedarg and Zalbaag alike, to keep Teta save. And Zalbaag's wild justifications in the murderous snow around Zeakden. He couldn't go home, to his traitorous brothers. He couldn't wander those halls where Teta and Delita had once roamed with him. He couldn't face Alma, and admit he'd failed.

"I can't," Ramza said.

Silence in the room. Radia, watching her father with a mixture of hate and grief. Ramza, staring at Gaffgarion. Gaffgarion, not quite looking at either of them.

"You don't want to go home," Gaffgarion said. "So what do you want to do?"

"I..." Ramza shook his head. "I don't know," he said. All his quests had ended in failure. His attempt to fight without killing. His attempt to spare the Death Corps, and see justice served. His attempt to save Teta, and when he'd failed there, to save Delita. Pointless. All of it, pointless.

Gaffgarion pursed his lips thoughtfully. "I see," he said. He closed his eyes, and exhaled through his nose. "He saved you?" Gaffgarion said.

Radia jolted, then gave a little nod. "Yeah."

Gaffgarion nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "Alright." He opened those dangerous eyes, and studied Ramza for a moment. "Idiot my daughter may be, but I'd still rather her alive than dead. You have my thanks, Ramza. Stay here as long as you like."

Ramza stared at the man in turn, met his green eyes. This cruel man, who'd aided and abetted criminals and torturers and rapists, who spat on the notions of honor and justice, and who now offered him a place to stay.

"Thank you," Ramza said.

"But I didn't pay all that gil for that bed so a spoiled noble bastard could sit his fat ass on it," Gaffgarion grunted. "I want you good enough to sleep on the floor within the week."


	28. Chapter 27: The Unknown World

(And with that, Part One is over! As a special treat, the entirety of Part One can be found as a downloadable pdf on my website, quickascanbe dot com. As you may have noticed, I am currently updating every two weeks, and will continue to do so until my personal life is less cluttered. I want to thank Squaresoft for creating such a wonderful world that's so much fun to write about)

 **Chapter 27: The Unknown World**

 _...at what point was the Zodiac Brave Story added to the myth of St. Ajora? At what point in his service in the Ydoran army and his revolutionary preaching across Ivalice was he supposed to be a legendary warrior wielding artifacts given unto him by God himself? Yes, I can point to the Glabados Conclaves that incorporates these apocryphal accounts, and rest smug and satisfied on my secular throne. But the timeline is even more muddled than common sense would suggest. Yes, the legend of the Zodiac Braves predates the official Church account, and the evolving Glabados Church made a conscious choice to incorporate elements of this older story into their religious text. But even early versions of the Ajora Gospels feature references and allusions to his time as one of the Zodiac Braves. How much is political artifice? How much the inevitable bloat of myth over time? And how much is accurate historical account?_

 _-Alazlam Durai, "On the Origins of the Zodiac Braves"_

By week's end, that had been Gaffgarion's order, but the next day the white-haired mercenary was bustling around the kitchen, packing supplies for the road.

"Contract work," he explained, to Ramza's sleepy questions. "Just got word of an especially lucrative job." He pointed with one gauntleted hand. "I still want you out of my bed when I get back."

Razma nodded. Gaffgarion left without another word.

When the pressure in his bladder or his bowels got too strong, Razma would rise from his resting place and stumble towards the bathroom. He couldn't help but admire it: it was Ydoran-style construction, smooth and clean and convenient as any of the lavatories in the Manor. Work like this cost a fortune, just like the bed. Exactly how much gil did Gaffgarion have?

Ramza heard the door creak open. He tensed upon the toilet.

"Ramza?" Radia called. Ramza felt a flush rising in his cheeks, a wave of hot shame in his chest.

"Just...just a moment!" he called back.

"Take your time!" she said.

Right, take his time with the beautiful woman who'd tried to kill him and the woman who'd successfully saved him sitting right outside the door. Make as much noise as possible.

But he didn't exactly want to limp back to bed still feeling this uncomfortable.

He tried to finish without making any noise. He failed in one ghastly gaseous spattering splash, and his cheeks felt hotter, and his chest felt tighter.

He finished, flushing the toilet and cleaning himself up with the bidet. He stepped out of the bathroom, trying not to make eye contact with Radia, who was busily cooking in front of the fire again.

"You're walking better," she said, stirring something in a broad black pan.

"I guess," Ramza muttered. He didn't feel any stronger: every step seemed to make his joints creak, and he was lurching awkwardly from side to side.

"You can walk," she said. "So that's a start." She raised herself away from the fire and scooped out a steaming pile of scrambled eggs, half in one bowl, half in another. "Sit," she said, gesturing to the circular dining room table of bright polished wood. Ramza sat in one of the rickety chairs, feeling it bow a little beneath his weight, and Radia slid the bowl in front of him. "Eat," she said, siting opposite him.

Ramza ate. The eggs were slimy in some places, charred in others, but wonderfully seasoned. Ramza ate greedily, then felt saliva thick in his mouth as bile rose in his throat. He sank back against his chair, taking slow, deep breaths to quell the queasy feeling.

"Don't eat too fast," Radia said.

Ramza nodded, and looked around the cottage again. Small, but ornately furnished.

"Your father's away a lot?" Ramza asked. Radia nodded, her eyes closed as she ate, slowly but persistently. "Who looks after the place?"

She swallowed and said, "No one."

"No one?" Ramza repeated, looking at the mattress, the table, the furnishings. Fully-stocked and totally unguarded? How was that possible?"

Radia shrugged. "Part of it's his rep," she said. "Everyone knows this is Gaffgarion's house."

"What's the other part?" Ramza asked.

She set her fork down and studied him. "You strong enough to go outside?" she asked.

"I...I think so."

"Okay." Radia got to her feet, grabbed a light blanket, and wrapped it around Ramza like a shawl. She led him to the heavy wooden door, and shoved it open. A chill breeze rattled the door on its hinges, carrying with it the heavy tang of sea salt: Ramza felt goosebumps racing down his arms and legs.

A thick layer of mist hung heavy in every direction, rimming the little stone house. Somewhere nearby, he could hear the crashing of the ocean against rocks. From where he was standing, Ramza could see what almost looked like a wooden shack, off to one side.

"What's that?" he asked, raising his voice a little to be heard over the crashing surf.

"My room," she said. "Dad added it on when mom died."

She walked slowly around the side of the house, towards a slope. Ramza followed, stumbling as he went, the back of his head pounding, his knees croaking in protest.

He reached the crest of the slope and hunched over in the mist, panting as his lungs and muscles burned with the effort. Every breath seemed to make his head spin worse, and he teetered, about to fall. Radia's arm wrapped around him, helped him to his feet. She kept him stable as he breathed, and the spinning in his head lessened.

"You good?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said. He turned cautiously, wary of any fresh spins. Surrounding this remote cottage was a wide expanse of empty green, hidden by the mist that ghosted between rolling hills. Behind them, a jagged cliff overlooked the wide grey expanse of the churning sea. Farther down the coast, Ramza could just make a tall shape, tapering to a point at its apex, with a fire burning at that highest point.

"What..." Ramza said, gesturing towards that distant shape.

"Midnight's Deep," Radia said.

"Midnight's..." Ramza trailed off and stared at her. "Elidibus' tomb?"

Radia snorted. "Tomb?" she repeated. "They never found his body, Ramza. Plus he built the place himself."

"He..." Ramza squinted his eyes, trying to make out that grand structure through the mist. He'd heard tales of the Deep, straddling that peculiar border between Lionel and Gallione, a towering construct built into and atop the cliffs. It functioned, first and foremost, as a lighthouse, to warn incoming ships of the treacherous coastline. And there were other stories, odder stories, about Ydoran wonders and ancient treasures and ancient secrets spirited away by the wizard...

But he'd never heard anything about the legendary mage building it himself.

"Was he really that powerful?" Ramza asked.

Radia shrugged. "Dunno. He died when my father was a kid. I thought Balbanes knew him?"

Ramza gave her a surprised look. "He did?"

"He never told you?"

"There..." Ramza shook his head, fingering the ponytail he wore in the style of his father. There was so much he'd never asked. So much he'd never learned.

They stood together, her arm wrapped around him, staring at the lofty relic of a bygone legend.

"Wait," Ramza said. "We're...that's Midnight's Deep?" He turned to stare at her. "We're that far south?"

"Yep," Radia said.

"How..." Ramza trailed off. They'd been on the north side of the continent, straddling the border between Fovoham and Gallione. How the hell had she managed to get them this far south?

"Wasn't easy," Radia said. "But it's the only safe place I know." She almost smiled. "That's why we were hiding out in the swamp, y'know. I used to go hiking around there, when I was younger."

"How old are you?" Ramza asked.

"Seventeen. You?"

"Sixteen."

They kept talking: that afternoon, and over the many days to come. Ramza got stronger, moved more easily, helped Radia clean and cook, helped her restore the runes and the magic of the place. He learned about the cottage he'd come to: built where a Ydoran lighthouse and stood, before the Fall. The house's plumping connected to an ancient Ydoran system built right into the cliffs, and retained enough of its magic to be quite comfortable. The closest village was a few miles southwest, running along the fringes of the swamp where Ramza had first met Radia.

Gaffgarion had built the house well before the Haruten had been disbanded, finishing it in the latter days of the war. Radia, too, had lost her mother to the Choking Plague. She had been raised in Limberry, but after her mother's death, Gaffgarion had returned home long enough to take her to his cottage. She had grown up here in the latter days of the war, seeing her father but rarely.

He told her of his father, too, and of his sister and his brothers. He told her of Delita and Teta, what had happened to all their parents, how they'd grown up under Balbanes' care and protection. He tried and failed to teach her to play grass flutes.

Late one sunny afternoon, they walked along the cliff's edge, shielding their eyes against the sunshine reflecting off the ocean.

"The Draining Blade?" Ramza repeated.

"Or the hungry blade," Radia said. "Or the Vampire's Sword. There's a lot of names, but they all mean the same thing."

"He taught you?" Ramza asked.

Radia shrugged. "A bit. He's not here often, and..."

She trailed off. The resentment between her and her father had been obvious from the moment Ramza had first seen them together: it was much clearer now, seeing how she simmered every time she begrudgingly talked about her father and his life.

"I've never heard of it," Ramza said.

"It's not like the Bursting Blade," Radia said. "There aren't really schools for it. In theory, anyone can learn, but it's hard. It's not the way magic usually works, so..."

She trailed off, studying Ramza, who had stopped walked and was staring out over the ocean. Thinking of Zalbaag and Wiegraf, and Gaffgarion's words.

"You okay?" she asked.

"I..." Ramza shook his head. "No."

Radia sighed. "I hear ya."

The waves kept crashing down below. The contrast between the chilly, wet breeze and the golden sun upon Ramza's skin made him feel a little unsteady, a little strange.

"You taught Miluda?" Ramza asked.

"I..." Radia closed her eyes. "Yeah."

"So you must be good."

Radia shook her head. "I'm really not," she said. "She was, though. She learned so...but if it was my dad, he..." Her voice took on that familiar strain. "The thing is, the art's about stealing your enemy's strength, and using it for you. The things I do are...like, you saw me when I hurt your friend."

Argus, slumping atop his chocobo, so weak he could barely move. Argus, bleeding in the snow, cursing at Ramza. Ghosts and sins, no matter where he turned.

"I was just...I couldn't stand, either," Radia said. "But if it was my dad, that...that would've made him _stronger._ " She shook her head. "I don't do it right. I couldn't teach them...not really...not enough to..."

Her words faded into the rising wind. The salt stung at Ramza's nostrils. The ocean roared and crashed down below.

They meandered inside, silent, lost in their own worlds. Ramza remembered his brother's order, and Argus' arrow: Teta, with blood plastering her hair to her face, and Delita kneeling in the snow as the fort collapsed around him.

"Radia," Ramza said, as the door swung shut behind them, silencing the wind. "Why did you join the Corps?"

Radia didn't answer right away. She shrugged off her blanket and curled up on the sofa. Ramza took his customary place on a dining room chair he'd pulled up beside the fireplace.

"You've heard the Zodiac Brave Story?" Radia asked.

Ramza hesitated, caught off-guard by the question and the peculiar discomfort he always felt when people asked about his religious beliefs. But her eyes were on the ceiling, not quite looking at him, and anyways she didn't seem a particularly fervent believer herself.

"Ajora's band, right?" Ramza asked. "The Disciples who slew the demons corrupting the Ydoran Empire."

Radia snorted. "That's the Church's story, yeah," Radia said. "Not sure I buy it."

"There's another story?" Ramza asked.

"An older story," Radia said. "My dad says it predates the rise of the Ydorans."

Ramza had never heard of such a thing. "Tell me," Ramza said.

Radia leaned back in her chair. "Before the Ydorans," Radia said. "Before Ajora. Before the Fall. Ivalice was a nation of seven kingdoms. I think you know them?"

"Gallione," Ramza said. "Fovoham, Lionel, Mullonde, Zeltennia, Lesalia, and Limberry."

"Right," Radia said, and her words assumed a dreamy, poetic cadence. "The kingdoms were always at war. They'd form coalitions against their mutual enemies, then betray their allies for a fleeting advantage. All Ivalice bled, over and over, and no man could rise above. One King of Lesalia decided he would put an end to the madness. He would form an army that could not be resisted, and conquer Ivalice. He learned ancient magics, he spent gold and blood and lives, until he summoned the Lucavi."

"Demons," Ramza said.

Radia shook her head. "Demons is too light a word," she said. "The Lucavi were devastation incarnate. They could obliterate whole castles and armies. They could burn whole nations. The first thing they did was slay the king and destroy his castle, and then they set across the seven nations, bringing disaster wherever they went. They might have laid all Ivalice to waste."

"Except for the Braves?" Ramza asked, smiling a little.

"Except for the Braves," Radia agreed, smiling in turn. "Who took on the difficult task of slaying the terrible monsters." Her voice lost its storyteller's rhythm. "Who they were varies each time I've heard the story. They're Ajora's Disciples from the far corners of Ivalice, united under our savior to do God's work. They're mercenaries, nobles, commoners, mages, local heroes, foreign heroes. The best version I ever heard had the son of the King who summoned the Lucavi take up the mantle, finishing his father's work by mercy and kindness, not magic and conquest."

"Isn't there a bit about crystals?" Ramza asked.

"The Zodiac Stones," Radia said. "One for each of the Constellations, each blessed with remarkable powers. The Glabados Church says that they were gifts from God to his prophet, Ajora. They say the months are still named for them."

"I remember that," Ramza said.

"But I don't think the story _needs_ the Stones," Radia said. "I mean, I guess it's a way of leveling the playing field? They're fighting demons, so they need a gift from God, right? I just...what mattered to me..."

Radia closed her eyes. Ramza waited.

"In every version of the story," Radia said. "In every version, the Braves aren't from one army or one nation. They aren't all nobles, they aren't all commoners, they aren't all men of God. They're just people trying to do the right thing."

"Heroes," Ramza said.

Radia nodded. She was silent for a while, leaving Ramza to his own weary thoughts. Heroes. Men like his father, fighting to end a war. But what about his brothers? Was Dycedarg one, if he turned friends against one another to win a future war? Was Zalbaag, if he ordered a defenseless woman shot? Was Wiegraf?

Ramza still believed in heroes. He just wasn't sure there had ever been very many of them.

"I thought the Corps..." Radia began. Ramza looked up and found she still had her eyes closed. "I thought they were heroes. And I always...I always wanted to be one."

"So you joined them?" Ramza said.

"So I joined them," Radia agreed. "I thought...but..." She shook her head. "It wasn't like that, was it? The things Gustav and Gregory did...hell, even Captain Miluda..." She gave him an odd look. "And then there was you."

"Me?" Ramza said.

"Teta told me you were trying not to kill anyone," Radia said. Ramza felt a sharp pang of guilt and grief mixing with all his other pains. Teta, who he'd failed to save. Just like Delita. Just like Argus.

"Look where it got me," Ramza whispered.

"I didn't believe her," Radia said, as though she hadn't heard him. "I didn't think anyone could be that stupid."

Ramza felt a warm flush in his cheeks. "It...it was stupid," he agreed.

"So stupid," she agreed. "But you did it. You did it, and you beat me, and..."

She trailed off. Silence, as Ramza thought of Teta, and Delita, and of his sword in Argus' back.

"I was lying there," she said. "Sure I was about to die, sure that...and then you didn't, and...and I couldn't believe it. I couldn't believe I was still alive. I thought I was...I thought I was gonna die, right there. And then..."

Ramza remembered. The cold Plateau, and the dead all around.

"I didn't know why I was alive," Radia said. "I didn't know why we'd taken Teta, or why Miluda had hurt her, or why she was dead, or..." She buried her face in her hands. "Like the world had ended, you know?"

Ramza remembered Zeakden collapsing in geysers of fire. His last glimpse of Delita, before the bridge had fallen.

"I know," Ramza said.

"Nothing made sense," Radia said. "And everything I tried just made it worse. Just..." She shifted so her eyes were just visible above her hands. "The fort was coming down," Radia said. "And you were the only one I could find."

Ramza looked into her green eyes. He touched the spot on the back of his head, still sore but free of its bandage. He wondered what had gone through her head, when she'd found him. He wondered if she'd thought about killing him. He was scared to ask.

"I don't know what to do, Ramza," she said. "I just...I don't."

Ramza didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

Minutes, or moments, or hours passed in silence before the key turned in the lock. They both looked up as Gaffgarion entered the room, still wearing that customized mesh of plate and mail. His helmet of the same dark color was under one arm.

"Still with us, Beoulve?" he asked.

"I am, sir," Ramza said.

"Hmph." Gaffgarion set his helmet down on the table, grabbed a dining room chair and hauled it closer to them. He sat squarely between them. Radia had straightened up, her face white, eyes carefully averted from her father.

"Well, Beoulve," Gaffgarion asked. "You won't go home. What do you want to do?"

Ramza didn't know. Had he ever known? Even back at the Academy, he'd had no clear objective. He'd always known he could never live up to the example of his brothers, and now he had no desire to, having seen and heard the monstrous things that they had done. But even they hadn't stabbed a man they'd saved in the back. How could Ramza embody the values of a Beoulve, when he saved a man one day and murdered him the next? When he swore not to kill, and led an injured band into the jaws of a vicious army? When he couldn't even save his friends?

"I don't know," Ramza said.

"Hmph." Gaffgarion drew out his pipe, packed it, lit it, and began to smoke. Silence presided over his cottage.

"When I left the Haruten," Gaffgarion said. "I did so on very particular terms. I liked the work I did, and I wanted to keep doing it. I call myself a mercenary, but that's not quite the right word. I'm a specialist. A man who knows both politics and combat. A man who gets the diplomatic and the military. A man you can trust to train green troops or fight in a difficult spot or handle a delicate job."

"A hired thug," spat Radia, not looking at her father.

"The whole world is hired thugs, oh daughter mine," Gaffgarion said. "The difference is that I know what I am." He puffed on his pipe again.

"But I was looking at these most recent contracts," Gaffgarion said. "And the work they need, well...it's work I can handle, but it's work that would be easier with the right, ah..." Gaffgarion studied his pipe for a moment. "Specialists."

Ramza stared into Gaffgarion's glittering eyes. "Specialists," Ramza repeated.

"Oh yes," Gaffgarion said. "I'm quite well-known in certain circles so while I was looking at my new jobs for the season I floated the idea of expanding my unit with new specialists—say, an Academy-trained soldier with extensive experience operating under difficult mission parameters." He set his pipe down as his words drifted across Ramza's mind. "There was some interest, Beoulve. And just as much interest when I mentioned a soldier with skills similar to mine and extensive experience dealing with covert operations and rebellions."

Radia's white face whitened further, and her hands curled into fists in her lap. "I told you, I would never-"

"Never what?" Gaffgarion asked. "Never fight for an ignoble cause? You know that ship sailed with Gustav, if not before. You may as well get paid."

"I would rather-" she started.

"Rather what!" Gaffgarion shouted. "Fight and die in some pointless war? What have you ever done that mattered, Radia?"

Father and daughter glared at each other, green eyes on green eyes.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said, as his thoughts caught up to the conversation. "Are you...are you saying..."

Gaffgarion looked away from his daughter. "I'd like to add you to my team," he said. "Specialists who handle complex jobs."

"I..." Ramza shook his head. "I don't understand." Things felt very strange, very surreal, and he couldn't quite make sense of any of it. "Why would you...I don't..."

"He wants to use you, Ramza," Radia said.

"Of course I do!" Gaffgarion said. "That's the way of the world! We all use each other. Ideally, we all benefit from that use equally. Like a marriage."

"Oh please-" Radia said.

"I loved your mother, Radia," Gaffgarion said. "I married her for love. So let me assure you that any vainglorious notions you have of selfless love are idiotic and uninformed. We used each other. For money, for comfort, for passion. That's all anyone ever does." Gaffgarion shrugged, looked between them. "So I want to use you, and let you use me in turn. See the world, far from your brothers. See the world, far from your rebels. And put a little gil in your pocket, too."

"What do you get out of this?" Ramza asked.

Gaffgarion lifted his pipe back to his mouth and took a smirking puff. "There's two answers otothat question," he said. "The way I see it, you travel with me and see the world. You learn I''m right, and you go home, and use your power the way it should be used, and when that day comes you remember your old friend Gaffgarion who showed you the way." He snorted. "And even if you decide I'm wrong, you'll learn enough about the world to know a man like me has his uses. You're a useful protege to have."

"And the other?" Ramza asked.

Gaffgarion closed his eyes and took another puff from his pipe.

"When a man takes his first step onto a battlefield, he thinks himself a hero," Gaffgarion mused. "Everyone tells themselves a story, about...about what they're fighting for, and how they'll fight. How they'll be better. How they'll prove them all wrong."

Gaffgarion set his pipe down. He opened his eyes, and for the first time since Ramza had met him, they didn't look that dangerous. They looked a little tired, and a little sad, and a little wistful. "And every man learns," he said. "How wrong they were. What's required from the very best of us. Even men your like father." He sighed. "I will not coddle you, boy. I will not spare you. But I can help you walk an easier path than I did." He looked at his daughter. "I can help you both."

Ramza stared at the strange, mercenary man, who'd spat on notions of honor and justice and service, on everything a Beoulve was supposed to hold dear, but what Beoulve held them dear now, when Zalbaag ordered the death of innocents and Dycedrag let good soldiers starve to solidify Larg's place upon the throne and Ramza couldn't save anyone, could only swing his sword and kill his friends?

If his father hadn't been telling him the truth...if honor and justice and service were empty words...

If that were true, Ramza hadn't failed. He'd only been a fool.

"May I have some time to think about it?" Ramza asked.

Gaffgarion laughed. "I leave for my first contract tomorrow," Gaffgarion said. "You have until then."

Ramza nodded, rose from his seat, and headed for the door. He needed air, sunlight, clarity. He left the cottage behind him, made his way up the slope, and stood at the cliff's edge, looking out at the magnificent lighthouse cairn. Erected in the honor of a mage unequaled in the history of Ivalice. A hero of the 50 Years' War. A killer even more prolific than his father.

Ramza fingered his ponytail again. Not as long as his father's, even now. They had called him the Heavenly Knight, because he had swung his sword and killed so many. And Ramza wasn't saying it was the wrong thing to do, but it was still murder. That was the problem Ramza kept coming back to. What was the difference between what Gustav had done to Ivan's friend and what Ramza had done to Argus? What difference in betrayal, intention, action? What made Gustav unjust?

"Ramza."

Ramza looked over his shoulder, as Radia ascended the slop and came to a stop a little ways behind him. He turned away from Midnight's Deep to face her.

"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"I..." Ramza shook his head. "I don't know." He tried to parse together the right words that could explain it: how he'd understood on some level what war and killing were, that he had idolized his brothers and his father, how he still idolized his father but he felt queasy at the notion of his brothers, how he felt like such a profound fucking failure because he couldn't save Teta and Delita and he hadn't been strong enough to stop Miluda and he had always felt like there was no place for him in the world but never more than at this moment.

"What about you?" Ramza asked, barely able to hear himself through the clamor of his thoughts.

Radia shook her head. "I..." She looked past Ramza, out to the lighthouse, and Ramza craned his neck to follow her gaze. They stared at Midnight's Deep together, while the ocean pounded against the rocks below.

"I never wanted my father's life," Radia said. "Not when he was in the Haruten, not after. I...he's always been like this, Ramza. He's always..." She shook her head. "He told me about the Zodiac Braves," Radia said. "Because he wanted me to know that...that they weren't real. That they're just a story so the people in charge can...can play pretend, and..."

She looked down at her feet. "Was he wrong?"

Honor. Justice. Service.

"I don't know," Ramza said.

The surf kept pounding against the cliffs.

"Not wrong," Ramza said, and it hurt to say it. The words caught in his throat, because he heard echoes of his last moments with his father, promising that Ramza could embody the virtues of his family, and how had Ramza repaid him? Justice, when the innocent died and Ramza killed his friends? Service, when Ramza fought and tormented men and women whose only crime was rebelling against Dycedarg's broken promise?

"Not wrong," he said again, more surely this time. "Not...not right." No, not right. Because his father's words were with him, and whatever else he had seen, he still knew Balbanes had been a worthy soul. He remembered his father's plea, that he should show his brothers what it meant to be a Beoulve.

The problem was, Ramza had no idea what that meant anymore. Every part of the strange journey from the Academy had robbed him of those notions. He didn't believe the Crown, or his brothers, cared much for the common people of Ivalice. He didn't agree with what the Corps had done, but he didn't know what other choice they'd had. He knew so little. And he had failed, time and time again, to achieve anything worthwhile. He was alive, where so many others had died.

Gustav. Ivan. Miluda. Beowulf. Argus. Teta. Delita. He let their names wash over him, and remembered his last sight of them—of bodies burning on pyres, bleeding in the snow, kneeling with arms around their sister's corpse as Zeakden crumbled around them.

"I don't know enough to know," Ramza said. "And your father, he..."

Gaffgarion was a lousy man of a poor reputation, and Ramza knew better than to trust him. But he knew that in part because the man made it so clear he didn't want to be trusted. He mocked honor, justice, and service. He called them nasty little words. But at least he didn't hide behind them. Didn't that make him better than Dycedarg and Zalbaag?

Ramza didn't know. And he was suddenly, terribly conscious of how little he knew. About the lives of others, and his own family. About how Ivalice really worked, at its highest levels and at its lowest. He had always felt daunted by the responsibilities that came with being a Beoulve: now he found he didn't fully understand those responsibilities, or the world around him.

He didn't know. And he wanted to know. He wanted to make sense of his brothers, and the Death Corps, and everything he had seen. He wanted Delita's death to mean something.

"Your father wants to show me something," Ramza said.

"He wants you to end up like him," Radia said. "He wants _me_ to end up like him."

"I know," Ramza said. "But at least...at least he tells me that." He felt tears burning in his eyes, and looked away from Radia so she wouldn't see. "I'm so tired of...of people lying, and..."

He choked back a sob fighting its ways up his throat. He shut his eyes and clenched his jaw and flinched against the faces of the lying and the dead looking back at him from the darkness.

"I know," Radia said.

The waves crashed down below, a muted roar rumbling just under the skin of their silence.

Whatever work Gaffgarion had for them would be different. It would be bloody. Ramza would have to kill again, and that thought didn't scare him the way it once had. What did it matter, after he'd stabbed his blade through Argus' back?

But the idea of doing it alone scared him.

"I'd feel better," Ramza said. "If it was...if it was both of us."

He looked back at her, now that his eyes were no longer burning. Radia stared past him, out to the horizon.

"I need to know I can leave," Radia said. "Whenever, okay? If I say go-"

"We go," Ramza said. "And I'll..." He swallowed. "I'll go with you, if you'll..." He looked down sheepishly. "I owe you that."

Radia took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Then she nodded. "Okay," she said.

Ramza turned away from the ocean, and the cairn. He walked towards her, stopped just in front of her. Her eyes were still closed. "Thank you," Ramza said.

Radia nodded again. Ramza hesitated, feeling his ponytail tickling at the nape of his neck. "Radia," he started. "Do you...do you have a knife?"

She blinked her eyes open, her mouth twisting to one side. She studied him for a long time. Ramza didn't know what she saw, looking at him: he only knew what he saw, looking at her. The red hair, a little cleaner now, and the green eyes so unlike her fathers, that looked just a little hurt and just a little angry. Powerful eyes, emotional eyes, but not dangerous eyes. This woman was powerful, but she was not a predator.

She reached down to her side, and pulled a knife out from its sheathe. She flipped it casually and handed it to Ramza, handle first. He took it from her, and in one quick, aching tug severed his ponytail, feeling his straw-blonde hair itching its way down his neck and back.

Nothing like his father. And he had no idea how he could be. He needed to know what the world really was, before he could ever try again.

He handed the knife back to her, and they trudged their way back down the hill, shoved open the door and found Gaffgarion still sitting in the living room with a drink in hand. He examined them indifferently. "Well?" he asked.

"We'll do it," Radia said. "But we leave whenever we want. What's our cut of the profits?"

Gaffgarion cocked his head. His eyes flickered to Ramza. "She speaks for you?"

"She probably knows your tricks better than I do," Ramza said..

Gaffgarion grinned. "60-20-20," he said. "But you forfeit your share if any job goes unfinished."

Radia nodded. Gaffgarion rose to his feet. "So!" he said. "I'm a commander again!" He clapped his hands together. "Clean your shit off my bed, boy. You're taking the couch."

 _...invisible forces. The web of chance, consequence, and decision is so complex, it boggles investigation or explanation. Again and again I come before this wall, in every research and every work. The Death Corps rebellion mattered, of course—its example inspired countless imitators through the years to come, which festered and disrupted and made the War of the Lions a still more difficult slog. But that such a relatively inconsequential rebellion could have such far-reaching consequences! The more I look, the more I find. How the Glabados Church found the lever by which they'd move Ivalice. How the Hokuten gained the experience they needed to challenge the Nanten. How Ramza Beoulve fell in with Geoffrey Gaffgarion. And, most importantly, how it could have set Delita Heiral on the path that would make him King of Ivalice. I fear I still have so much more to learn in my search for truth._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Letter to the Dean of Historical Studies at the College of Lesalia"_


	29. Chapter 28: The Cost of Duty

(Part Two begins now! And for your patience, please accept a double update: first, the stage is set by Annabel Iphis, a knight of the Lionsguard trying to make sense of her conflicting obligations; then, Ramza Beoulve and Radia Gaffgarion are offered an exciting new job after years of fighting. If you want to see my musings on the chapters, grab the pdf of Part One, or look at my other work, be sure to check out quickascanbe dot com)

 **Part Two: The Strong, the Weak, and the Godly**

 **Chapter 28: The Cost of Duty**

Annabel Iphis couldn't decide if she was a traitor or not.

She'd started trying to puzzle it out almost a year ago. She was still struggling now, walking through the paved and pristine order of Lesalia, with the polished storefronts around her and the Ydoran watchtowers spaced evenly along the city's neat grid. To look at her, you might have pegged her for a soldier—the short dark hair, the hard and wary eyes, and the purposeful, agile steps. She wore a cloak that obscured her features, and no mark of her rank or unit on her person. A short sword was hidden beneath the cloak, its outline artfully concealed in the folds.

Easy to guess she was a soldier. Harder to guess she was of the Lionsguard—those elite knights from across the kingdoms devoted to the service of the royal line. But Annabel couldn't forget: not with the looming shadow of the Lion's Den in the distance, visible even from where she walked on the far fringes of the city. It was a citadel of stone and concrete, artful and deadly in the style of the strongest Ydoran fortifications. Garrisons, watchtowers, murderholes, meeting rooms, greenhouses, and even a few ancient magical traps and weapons maintained by some of the finest royal mages lay hidden within. Here was the ancient stronghold of the Atkascha line: here, kings and queens of old had ruled Ivalice.

Here, Queen Louveria spread her poison, in the name of her son, Orinus.

And that was the problem. The Lionsguard were sworn to serve and protect the royal family and, through them, all Ivalice. But how did you execute your duties when the royals turned against each other? When your King perished of the same symptoms that had killed his father, decades after the fact? When nobles, advisers, and men of conscience were harassed, disgraced, and imprisoned, as the Queen grabbed for more and more power?

Whose side was the only child of the Iphis family to take?

She hesitated in front of the door, then took a steadying breath and pushed her way inside to reveal a dingy dirt-floored hole in the wall, cast in murky light by a half-dozen candles on a half-dozen tables. A heavily-bearded man stood behind the bar, drawing a drink from a barrel and pushing it into the hands of a sour-faced man sitting in front of him. She made her way to him.

"What are you looking for, stranger?" asked the barkeep.

Anna took another breath, making sure she had remembered all the words of the answering phrase. "A strong drink and a little peace," she said.

The barkeep chuckled. "I can manage a drink," he said. "But no peace. Only quiet."

"Quiet'll do just fine." She placed two 100-gil coins on the table, and he reached below the bar and pulled out a small green bottle with a hand-drawn label. She took it gratefully, turned away from the far, and looked down at the label, which had a simple diagram of six points connected by lines. A small corona encircled one of those points, and if you knew what you were looking for, you might realize that the pattern of the dots conformed to the location of the candles in the bar.

She made her way to the indicated candle, and took a seat She pretended not to have noticed the man sitting just behind her, his own hood drawn up to obscure his face as he spooned a thin vegetable soup into his mouth. She faced the other way, and opened her bottle.

"And her I'd asked the barkeep for a little quiet," mumbled the man behind her.

"I'm not here for quiet," Annabel said. "I'm here for peace."

No answer from the man behind her, just the clinking of a metal spoon against a ceramic bowl. Anna's heart was beating very fast, and her hands were shaking almost as badly as they had before the exam she'd taken to become a Lionsguard cadet. The sons of the Iphis family had always served in the Lionsguard, and Anna was the only heir to the Iphis name since her father had died in the war. Whatever her mother said she did not intend to break that tradition and she had tried so hard and the Military Academy hadn't taken her because she was a noblewoman and her mother had spat a thousand hurtful barbs as she had fought to be appointed a mere squire to the Lionsguard, but she had earned her appointment, she had fought her way to be the first among the cadets, and now...

It was so much harder than she'd ever though it would be.

"For peace," said the man behind her, and Anna felt weak with relief.

"Who are you?" Anna asked.

"Best we don't trade names," he said. "If one of us gets taken, we can't out the others."

Wise. But of course he was. Everything she'd learned pointed to him being some kind of Nanten spymaster, so skillful he could secret himself even in a capitol city inundated with hostile Hokuten and still carry out covert operations. She'd seen the signs—the unexpected brawls and blow-ups, powerful nobles suddenly exposed to charges of corruption and scandal, other nobles and authorities who escaped before they should ever have had reason to fear the Queen. That was what had brought her here, tonight, in spite of her name, in spite of her questions.

"We're safe here?" she asked.

The man chuckled. "If you think we're safe anywhere, you really don't understand what we're facing."

She brought the bottle to her lips, but didn't drink. No telling what had been put in the bottle. Like this man said: nowhere was really safe.

"The man at the bar-" she mumbled around the bottle.

"The barkeep's one of ours," the man replied. "Not the man he's serving."

So who was the sour-faced man? Just someone looking for a drink somewhere out of the way? Or an agent of the Queen and her brother? Perhaps an agent of Dycedarg Beoulve? Or perhaps an agent of this mysterious man behind her, waiting for her to lower her guard?

She didn't know if she was a traitor or not. But she did know that these were very murky waters to be swimming in, and she'd never wanted to be here. She'd wanted to be the shield and sword of the royal family, protecting them as they upheld their God-given duties. She wanted to be a hero, a proud servant in the tradition of the best of the Iphis name She hadn't known that the trust shown in her would also come with such black secrets. She hadn't known...

"What news?" came the voice from behind him, shaking her from her reverie.

"The Princess," Anna replied.

"We need more than that."

She swallowed against the dryness of her throat. "She's in Orbonne."

"I'm aware."

"She's the only one left."

"She...what?"

Anna lifted the bottle to her lips, but still didn't drink. "Alma Beoulve left last night. She's the last one. Now it's just Ovelia."

"Which means there's no fallout when she dies," the man behind her muttered.

The sour-faced man at the bar stumbled out the door. The bar was eerily quiet now.

"They're...they're going to blame the Nanten."

"It's the obvious move."

"They've got cloaks," Anna said. "And..."

"And?"

"I'm not sure about this," Anna said. "But I think Dycedarg altered the paperwork of a Nanten garrison, so it'll look like-"

"They'll be on the official papers?" he said in surprise. "Oh, that _is_ clever. And of course, the Hokuten won't ever discover the discrepancies in their own records."

She nodded, her fingers drumming on the neck of her bottle. All this she'd pieced together from the memos and letters that fell into her care as a member of the Lionsguard: little mentions of 'security of our nation,' 'protection of our allies,' 'reprehensible condition of a frontline Nanten garrison.' All so innocuous if you couldn't see the pieces.

But this last secret was a betrayal, no two ways about it. She'd had to break into Dycedarg's personal carriage to find it, while his guards were asleep from the drinks she'd slipped them, loaded with soporifics.

"It's a small unit," she said. "No more than ten soldiers."

"That _is_ small," conceded her contact. "Only a..." He paused for a moment, thinking. "Two to one advantage over the Lionesses, yes?"

"Just about," she confirmed. "But they..." She faked a yawn, so she could look around the empty room. Only the barkeep remained, busily polishing a glass. "They have someone on the inside."

The man behind her stiffened: she heard his cloak rustle with it. "Who?"

"I don't know," she said. "But Dycedarg was...he was sure. Sure that someone was ready."

"That's all it would take," he muttered. "In a straight fight, they've got a fair shot, but if one of their own..." He trailed off. "You don't know who?"

"No," she said. "I just...I found it in a note. Apparently they'll be reinforcing the garrison so that no one can say-"

"That they didn't protect her," the man said. His spoon clattered in his empty bowl. "Lucavi take me, that's..."

Silence for a time. Perhaps even this mysterious man hadn't really understood the danger. Perhaps he hadn't imagined just how insidious these people were. Anna knew she hadn't. She'd spent so long lying to herself, pretending that the King's death really could be innocent, pretending that the Queen's paranoia and tyranny were justified in such difficult times...

But she was an Iphis. They protected the royal family, even from itself. If she had to be a traitor to do that, so be it.

The door to the bar swung open. A dark-haired man in a Hokuten cloak entered the room, hand on his hilt, eyes sweeping across the room. Anna's heart lurched in her chest, and her hands began to tremble again. She reached for the bottle and lifted it to her lips, still not drinking.

"Were you followed?" the man behind her muttered.

"Were you?" Anna whispered.

Silence, as the Hokuten soldier's eyes settled a moment too long on her. Then he was moving towards the bar.

"He knows," the man behind her whispered. "On your right, there's a door in the corner. I'll distract him."

The man behind her rose to his feet, bowl in hand. Anna followed him with nervous eyes as he made his way to the bar. "Pardon me, sir-" he slurred at the top of his voice, and then stumbled over his cloak and slammed into the Hokuten knight.

"Watch where you're going, oaf!" boomed the Hokuten knight, and Anna was already out of her seat and moving towards the corner, and just as he'd said there was a door there, small and easily-missed, and it swung noiselessly on its hinges and she was through, into a little storeroom with another door outlined in moonlight in the back and Anna pushed her way through this surprisingly-heavy door and stepped outside. She cast her head every which way, taking her surroundings: she was sandwiched between several small buildings and the wall that had been half-carved into the surrounding mountains, and there didn't look to be much in the way of-

Movement from the corner of her eye. She turned, hot-footed backwards with her small sword already in hand, lashing out in time to deflect a flurry of quick jabs with a much longer blade. The slight shadow in front of her drove her back in the dark, and it was all Anna could do to keep her feet, panic and doubt forgotten as the man came after her, lost in the immediate rush of frenzied fighting.

Blades ringing against each other, quick jabs, slashes, and thrusts, and the man in front of her cursed and drove forwards, too eager, too clumsy, and there was her opening, there-

The door behind her creaked open. Anna felt a cold pressure in her back and below her belly, almost as though she had diarrhea but deeper and wider somehow, and she took a quick, surprised breath. Her fingers reached for her stomach, and found the cold steel of a sword.

A heavy blow to the back of her head, and her thoughts melted into blurred colors and dazed stars and ragged fire burned in her stomach as the blade tore free. She hit the ground, gasping still.

"She was supposed to be poisoned!" grunted the man who'd ambushed her, and the moon passed out of cloud cover and exposed his sour face.

"She was cautious," said the other man, and she recognized that calm, pleasant voice—the voice of the Nanten spymaster. She moaned in protest, trying to understand what happened, trying to make sense of the disparate pieces.

He leaned down to her, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the darkness beneath his hood. Eyes so dark as to be almost black glittered beneath a mane of clay-red hair, and his cheek was mottled with the scars of an old burn.

"Go help the others clean up," the red-haired man said. The sour-faced man grunted, and stepped over her and through the door. He didn't even look at her. He didn't even...!

Anna found she was crying. It all felt so pointless.

"You..." Anna whispered, and her voice felt so weak. "Why...?"

The red-haired man sighed. "Because no one else can know what you've done," he said, almost kindly. "You had noble intentions, I know. But you're not very good at this. You'll get caught. And when you do, you'll make it impossible to keep her safe."

"But..." By the Saint, her stomach was agony, and her head was spinning and she felt so weak, and the night seemed darker somehow, and all her questions and all her struggles, her fighting to get here and the secrets she'd learned, had it all been for nothing?

Suddenly he'd shifted, straddling her chest with her short sword braced against her throat, and her head was spinning and she couldn't remember him moving and it seemed like the stars were winking out, like the light was going out of the world.

"Safe?" she mumbled. "You'll...keep Ovelia..."

She couldn't see the red-haired man's face anymore.

"You have my word," he said.

"Who-" she started, and then the blade drew an aching line across her neck and Annabel Iphis tried to blink and found she couldn't open her eyes anymore.


	30. Chapter 29: Black Sheep

(This is the second part of a double update. The first part is Chapter 28: the Cost of Duty. Please go back if you missed it. If you want to see my musings on the chapters, grab the pdf of Part One, or look at my other work, be sure to check out quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 29: Black Sheep**

 _I have always considered the Black Sheep an interesting historical footnote. In many ways, they succeeded where the Death Corps failed. But of course, they benefited from better connections: Ser Grimms was the bastard son of Viscount Blanche, and he leveraged his connection to his father and his military training to give a foot in the door to disenfranchised talent all across Ivalice. By the time the 50 Years' War had ended, Grimms and the black sheep of Ivalice's nobility were so accomplished and so beloved that Grimms was made an honorary Baron and his followers a knightly order of surprising versatility. His Black Sheep were instrumental in the chaotic two years that followed the Death Corps uprising, as tensions across a weakened Ivalice exploded in riots, revolts, and banditry..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "A Brief History of the Knightly Orders of Medieval Ivalice"_

The first man fell with an arrow in his back. The others scattered for cover, too late: the second arrow flew and buried itself in a man's thigh. One of his comrades threw herself low, and began to crawl towards her fallen friend: a shadow moved out of the dark and a sword plunged down through her belly. She moaned in awful protest, but Ramza's ears were numb to that dying gasp. He'd heard it too often now, over these years of war.

A bellow of anguish and rage drowned out the dying man, and Ramza darted away as a spearman lunged out of the dark, thrusting once, twice, thrice. Ramza ducked and dodged between each blow, rebounded off a nearby outcropping of rock and kicked the other man in the face. The spearman stumbled away, clutching at his broken nose, and Ramza slashed him across the chest so his blood spilled out into the dirt.

Ramza turned back to the man with the arrow in his thigh, and raised his sword for the kill.

"Mercy!" shrieked the man. "Please, mercy, please-"

Ramza raised his blade still higher, staring down at the ragged man, his hands raised to shield his face.

He lowered his sword, and placed his foot against the man's thigh. The wounded man moaned in protest, but fell silent as Ramza leaned close.

"You're a prisoner now," Ramza said. "If you try anything, you'll regret it for a long time before you die."

"Okay," sobbed the man. "Okay just please don't kill me please-"

Ramza hauled the man to his feet, and hauled him limping out into the dusk.

"Saint take me, boy!" shouted one of the older soldiers on patrol, glowering at Ramza over the wild tangle of his beard. "Another damned captive?"

"What can I say, Erik?" Ramza said—he'd had no trouble remembering this old sergeant's name. "Old habits die hard."

"Old habits," snorted Erik. "You were pissing in your britches...what? Six months ago?"

"Who says I've stopped?" Ramza asked, and Erik guffawed and took the limping prisoner from Ramza's hands, steering him into the thicket of tents. Ramza made his way back to his own tent to strip off the dark and dented mix of jointed plate and leather he wore in the field. Then he grabbed oil and cloth and headed to a nearby fire. He took a seat at convenient log they'd dragged by the fireside, and began cleaning the saber he'd taken from a dead Ordallian merc some six months ago.

The hands that held the rag and sword were calloused from the thousand tricks and jobs a mercenary had to do to make a living, and his wiry body was stronger still now, narrow-waisted and broad shouldered. His hair was a little shaggy now—months since he'd seen a barber, and no particular desire to—and his green eyes were cold as they studied the sword in his hand. He polished the bloody blade until it gleamed in the firelight.

"Another captive, Ramza?"

Ramza looked up. The man on the other end of the fire was stout and smiling, dark hair kept neat above his round, sun-weathered face. Smart dark eyes crinkled above his wide smile. He wore a silken grey tunic with a detailed emblem of a black ram's head upon its back.

"Apologies, Baron," Ramza said, inclining his head.

Baron Grimms guffawed, plumping down onto a little stool at Ramza's right. The stool creaked a little beneath his weight. "No skin off my ass, Ramza," the Baron grunted. "More's the pity. Poor rump could use it." He patted his belly and leaned forward onto his knees. "Mind, the poor Viscount Blanche might object, but I think it sends a nice message. Yield, and you'll be treated kind. Don't, and you'll be dead."

Ramza shrugged hesitantly. The Baron cocked his head. "Something wrong, Ramza?" Ramza shook his head. The Baron chuckled. "You're a bad liar."

Ramza thought for a moment longer, then mumbled. "Will they?"

"Will they what?" Grimms replied.

"Will they be spared?" he asked. "If they...if they yield."

"Hm," the Baron grunted, and looked thoughtfully into the fire. "Hard to say, Ramza. The Viscount's reasonable, as nobles go, but the fact that he had to call for help, well...it makes him look weak."

"Isn't that what the Black Sheep are for?" Ramza asked, managing a wan smile that felt awkward on his face.

"Oh, of course!" the Baron exclaimed, grinning back at him. "The best and brightest of Ivalice, rushing to the rescue of whoever has need of us!"

"Or whoever has gil for you," Ramza observed.

Grimms put a hand to his chest in mock outrage. "You wound me, knave!" he exclaimed. "Do I strike you as such a lowborn sort?"

"Quite the opposite," Ramza said. "Running where the gil is makes you just about as highborn as you can get."

Grimms chortled. "Everyone's a mercenary," admitted Grimms. "Whether they know it or not. We all have our prices."

"You sound like Gaffgarion," Ramza said.

"And still you persist with the insults!" Grimms replied. "Where is that skeeving bastard, anyways?"

"He never tells us," Ramza says. "Just finds the next contract and pulls us along."

"The man does have a nose for work," grunted the Baron. "He's not wrong, either." Ramza shot him a quizzical glance, and Grimms explained, "About self-interest. It rules men. To pretend otherwise is to play the game blind. If you play with open eyes, well..." He gestured to the camp around them. "We do alright. And in this case we're friendly with the Viscount, so it's not quite the insult it would be if he had to ask for help from someone else. That said..."

The Baron scratched his chins. "The fact is that the Viscount's lands have historically been there own little kingdom, long as their Viscount bends the knee to whoever's in charge. A revolt like this..." The Baron sighed. "He'd have to execute the ringleaders, if nothing else." The Baron watched the fire for a time, then added, "Or at least, the men he _calls_ the ringleaders."

"What do you mean?" Ramza asked.

"I doubt he'll find them," Grimms said. "Just like we didn't find them in Dorter, or in Limberry, or...well!" He gestured at Ramza. "I don't need to tell _you_."

Ramza supposed that was true. This revolt in the Araguay Plains was but the latest in a long series of revolts, battles, and uprisings. Hell, since taking on a merchant conspiracy in Sal Ghidos and their company of Ordallian mercenaries (where Ramza had won his latest sword), Ramza, Radia and Gaffgarion had helped put down a group of fishermen-turned-pirates north of Zeltennia, then fought a mishmash of Limberry and Zeltennia peasants acting as bandits to harass trade routes tying Bethla Garrison to the continent at large. Now he was so far east he was almost back in Gallione, much to his displeasure.

"What happened in Dorter?" Ramza asked.

"That's where we're coming from," Grimms said. "Riots in the slums."

"Oh!" Ramza exclaimed. Unbidden, Ivan Mansel's face appeared in his mind's eye, and from there the memories unfolded, of that stinking hotel room and Beowulf's countless bruises from his countless fights and Argus raging at every imagined slight and Delita always thinking and-

Ramza shut his eyes against the awful weight of longing grief that sprang undammed from his heart and up into his throat.

"You alright?" the Baron asked.

Ramza nodded, though he kept his eyes closed. "Sorry," he said. "I was...when I was younger, I lived there, for awhile. Had some friends..."

"When you were younger," snorted Grimms. "What, still sucking on your mother's tit?"

"Something like that," Ramza agreed.

"Well, I hope your friends weren't still there," Grimms said. "It was a bad scene. Lotsa fires. Lotsa fighting. You know how fucking crowded it is, so..."

The Baron trailed off. Ramza tried to imagine those dirty streets, but shied away from the thought as he remembered plunging through the crowd, chasing after Wiegraf and Miluda. Ah, but that was Grimms' point, wasn't it? That was how the people of Dorter had reacted to one such explosion. How would they have reacted to blood in the streets and their homes aflame?

"By the Saint," mumbled Ramza.

His eyes were closed, and he fought to push back the things he'd tried so hard to forget. When his heart had stopped its pounding and his mind felt comfortably numb, he opened his eyes again, staring into the fire, trying to lose himself in the feeling of the sword in his hands, the leaping flames, the contrast between the heat on his face and the cool air on his back and the smell of smoke in his nose.

"Big scene," Grimms said. "We weren't the only ones there. Hokuten, obviously, but Dorter's right on the border so some of the Nanten-"

"The Nanten crossed the border?" Ramza said, looking up in surprise.

"Oh yeah," Grimms growled. "And then started clashing with the Hokuten about who was in fucking charge. And I mean _clashing:_ some off-duty soldiers met up at bar and started their own fucking riot."

"Things are that bad?" Ramza asked.

"Yeah," Grimms said. "Like I said. Real shitshow. Which might be why..."

Grimms leaned back on his stool and gave a great stretching yawn, twisting his body from side to side to crack his back. But as he did, Ramza couldn't help but notice his eyes flickering around, as though he were looking for any man who might be listening.

"Which might be why," he said again, in a voice just as cheerful and casual as before but pitched much lower, so only Ramza could hear him. "We never found anyone I'd call a ringleader. A few guys who started fires, sure: a few guys who'd thrown stones, who'd led some drunkards on a spree. But all that didn't happen spontaneously, ya see? All that fighting...there was someone else working behind the scenes. And most of the guys we caught confirmed the story. They told us there was someone higher up the chain."

"But you don't know who?" Ramza asked.

"No idea," Grimms said. "But I've got some guesses. Maybe an idea or two on where to start looking, too. See, I think maybe the Corps didn't quite get broken the way the Hokuten claim."

Ramza stared at him in disbelief. "Really?" he whispered. Damn, the Death Corps...how long since he'd really thought about them, besides idle conversations with Radia? "You think the Corps is behind all this?"

"Not exactly," Grimms said. "But that many guys with that much training and that much reason to hate the Crown...maybe they hide out for awhile, make some contacts. Maybe this time they go their separate ways, and try to cause as much trouble as they can." Grimms shrugged. "Been hearing things about new trouble back near Zeltennia...some kinda old cult. Call themselves something real pretentious. Onyx Eye? No, that ain't right..." Grimms pursed his lips and looked up into the night sky. "Official line is they're just bandits, but some of my friends in the Nanten say they're causing real trouble. Too much trouble. Bandits and cultists, between a Glabdos city and Goltanna's home base...it seems a little strange, right?"

"I...I suppose it does," admitted Ramza.

"Lotta that going around these days," Grimms said. "Why it matters to have people close you can trust, eh, Ramza Lugria?"

Ramza nodded, but suddenly he felt uneasy. That uncomfortable feeling of large things moving just out of sight.

"Ramza," repeated Grimms, as though he were savoring the name, appraising its taste. "You know, it's funny. I've never met anyone with that name. Do y'know who named you?"

"I..." Ramza trailed off. He honestly didn't know. His father's choice, or his mother's? Why had he never thought to ask, while either of them still drew breath?

"I mean," the Baron said. "I've never met anyone with the name, but I have _heard_ of someone. This Beoulve bastard who went missing a couple years back."

Ramza's skin prickled, and he stared pointedly at the fire, trying not to look surprised. "Beoulve, huh?" he managed, in spite of the dryness in his throat.

"Yeah," Grimms replied. "I mean, bastard's not quite right. His father took'em in. Made'em a member of the house." Grimms chuckled. "Technically he's got a higher rank than _me_. Or, uh... _had_ , I guess. He went missing during the Death Corps campaign. Presumed dead."

Ramza hesitated, unsure what he should say to allay suspicion. "These noble kids," he managed. "Think they're invincible, right?"

"Oh, this kid must've," agreed Grimms. "Heard from one of my Hokuten friends that this kid wouldn't kill anyone. Just took captives, wherever he went. Whole Death Corps campaign, and he didn't kill a single one of'em."

"I...don't believe that," Ramza said.

"Me neither," Grimms said. "I mean, _you_ take more captives than most, but you still kill. And you're good at it too, Ramza. You're a damn fine solider."

"I..." Ramza looked up to find the Baron staring at him. "Thank you," Ramza whispered, meeting the Baron's gaze. They remained like that for a few seconds.

"Which of you's about to confess your love to the other?" Radia asked

Ramza craned his neck to look at her as she came striding out of the darkness. She still wore the mingled leather and plate of her days in the Death Corps, and she'd shortened her hair a little, but otherwise two years of travel had left her unchanged. She plopped down on Ramza's log.

"Why not both?" Ramza squeaked, instantly ashamed of the tremor in his voice.

"Radia!" Grimms exclaimed, grinning. "Where have you been!"

"While my dad's away, I've got to make sure we're doing our part," Radia said. "Speaking of: I think we've met our contractual obligations?"

Grimms considered. "I'd say so," he agreed. "But not enough to qualify for the bonus."

Radia rolled her eyes. "Of course not."

"Good to see you," mumbled Ramza.

She nudged his shoulder with hers. "You too," she said. "What were you boys talking about?"

"Well, to be honest," said the Baron. "I was building up to recruit your boyfriend."

"Boyfriend," Radia snorted. "You're not the first, Baron. But we're Gaffgarion's men."

"He's a fine mercenary, as such things go," granted Grimms. "I'd try to recruit him, too, but he's clear he's not having any of it."

"So you're just trying to poach one of his soldiers?" Radia said.

"Oh no," replied the Baron. "Both of them."

"I..." Radia trailed off, blinking. "What?"

"You know why we're called the Black Sheep?" Grimms asked. "Because that's what we are. Commoners and criminals and mercenaries, the second, third, fourth, fifth sons and daughters and bastards of houses that thought us useful pawns at best" He leaned forwards, smiling, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "But we got talent. We got guts. And where it matters, we got connections."

Grimms studied them each in turn, and Ramza felt that strange, euphoric tingling he sometimes got when someone watched him and spoke to him like that, stretching from the nape of his neck down his spine.

"All these revolts," Grimms said. "Hokuten and Nanten fighting...big war's coming. I'd like to make sure my men are as ready as they can be for it." His smile widened. "The Black Sheep would be better off with the two of you among us"

Ramza tried to look nonchalant. He suspected he was failing. "As you said, Baron," Ramza began, trying not to let his voice shake. "All men have their price. What do you think ours is?"

"Ah, that's just it!" the Baron replied. "I think you're the kind of fools whose price is simply a worthy cause to fight for." He paused, and added, "For what it's worth, service in the Black Sheep comes with a share in whatever gil we make, and historically has provided plenty of opportunities for other forms of remuneration."

Ramza and Radia exchanged sidelong glances. "We'll need time to think," Radia said.

"Of course, of course," Grimms said. He rose from his seat. "Not to push my luck, but hurry with your reply. Soon enough, one of us will have to leave."

Grimms strolled away from the fire, whistling cheerfully. Radia and Ramza waited until he was gone, then turned to face each other.

"This could be it," Radia said.

"It could," Ramza said cautiously. He liked the Baron, and he liked the Black Sheep. The past two years had put them in contact with any number of militias, armies, knightly orders, mercenaries, and all other sorts of groups, and the Black Sheep stood out. Not only good at what they did, but they were also damn decent people.

"It just..." Radia started. "It seems too good to be true, right?" She gave Ramza a probing glance. Ramza knew what she meant—a coalition that straddled that fine line between pragmatic and idealistic, made of disparate warriors from the far corners of Ivalice. As close to the Zodiac Braves as a person could reasonably hope for. And whatever his conflicts with Gaffgarion, Ramza agreed with the man on one point: if a thing seems too good to be true, it usually is.

"But what if it is true?" Ramza asked, giving voice to his own half-hidden hope.

"What if," Radia repeated.

They stared into the fire.

The next few days were placid and uneventful. Ordinary patrols mopping up the last of the rebels, and no trace of any ringleaders, just as Grimms had predicted. They saw the Baron only in passing, as he rushed to and fro to keep his men in line, preparing them for their journey east.

On the third day, the tents were mostly packed away, and nearly half of the Black Sheep had already left, heading east to secure a base of operations for their conflict with this unknown cult. Ramza and Radia were restless: there was nothing to do, and they'd made no decisions. They spent the afternoon sparring, Ramza trying to mimic her Draining Blade. His lessons with her had been sporadic, only occupying what few idle moments they'd shared where they still had energy to fight. He'd gotten good at defending himself, keeping his magic from being taken: their sparring usually took the form of Radia trying to steal some of his energy, with Ramza fighting to keep it under his control. Occasionally they'd try it the other way, but there was no sport there: Radia was much better at it than he was.

"-so the duke's daughter says, 'What's so funny'?" crowed Gaffgarion's voice from behind a nearby hill. "And the steward goes, 'Well, you missed the fuck out of him, but he fucked the miss out of you!"

Grimms laugh boomed out to them, and the two men wandered around the hill, clutching at each others' shoulder and shaking with mirth. Ramza and Radia stopped their sparring as sweat dripped down their faces and stared aghast between the two men.

"Of course," Grimms chuckled, wiping a tear from his eye. "In Zeltennia it's the queen's daughter."

"And in Fovoham, it's the cardinal's!" Gaffgarion retorted, and the two men broke down laughing again. Gaffgarion braced himself against his knees, while Grimms slapped at his considerable belly.

"Dad?" Radia called.

"Radia!" Gaffgarion called back, waving jauntily. "The Viscount was _very_ impressed with your work. Didn't even have to fight him for the gil."

"Mind," Grimms chortled. "Your father thought that was a sign he should push for more."

"No harm in asking," Gaffgarion said.

"The Viscount didn't seem to agree," the Baron retorted.

"But you do," Gaffgarion said.

"Of course," Grimms replied, with a wolfish grin.

"Dad!" Radia said. "Where have you been?"

"Oh, calm down, dear daughter mine," huffed Gaffgarion. "You don't hear Ramza complaining."

"For the same reason you don't hear men lecturing the deaf," Ramza mumbled.

"I heard that," Gaffgarion said.

"As I intended," Ramza said.

"I had to sort out our next contract," Gaffgarion said. "Possibly our last for the year."

Ramza and Radia exchanged surprised looks.

"Quite a lucrative job, too," Grimms said. "I'm envious."

"You think the Crown would trust you?" Gaffgarion scoffed.

"You think the Crown trusts _you_?" Grimms asked, eyebrows arched.

"Enough, I guess," Gaffgarion said.

"The Crown?" repeated Ramza.

"Oh yes," Gaffgarion said.

"What exactly are we supposed be doing?" Radia demanded.

"Dunno," Gaffgarion said. "I had to be vetted first, y'see. Go in person, pay the proper respects, pay the proper _bribes_..."

"Grease the wheel," Grimms said.

"Or it doesn't turn," Gaffgarion said. "All I know is it's a matter of national security, and it's top secret. They've agreed we're good for the job, and they'll give us the final details at our next meeting."

"Tell'em how much you're getting paid," Grimms said, nudging his shoulder.

Gaffgarion grinned, his eyes glittering. "100,000 up front," Gaffgarion said. "A 100,000 if we finish the job. Bonuses if there's any trouble. And all expenses covered."

Ramza and Radia gaped at him. Even for the kind of specialized work they did, 200,000 was almost unheard of. What were they supposed to be doing?

"Trouble is," Grimms said. "They need the full squad. They won't even offer the job for just one man." He wagged his eyebrows at Ramza, then did the same in Radia's direction.

"'Course, with that much money, I'd take the rest of the year off," Gaffgarion said. "And what would I need the two of you for, when I'm on vacation?"

Ramza felt ice prickling against the nape of his neck. He turned his eyes to Grimms. "You told him," Ramza said.

"The topic came up," Grimms said.

"And frankly," Gaffgarion said. "I've no problem with it. Just give me this last job, and you can go your own way."

"And when you're done," Grimms said. "You little lambs can join me. For the short-term, or the long."

"All business," Ramza said, and felt his jaw clenching. Even here, no trace of hope. Even here, nothing of grandeur.

"Not all business," the Baron said. "But business enough."

He waved, and walked away from them. Ramza stared after him, then looked towards Radia, who had folded her arms across her chest as she glared at her father.

"And what did I do to warrant such an evil eye, oh daughter mine?" Gaffgarion asked.

"What you always do," Radia said.

"We came to a mutually-beneficial arrangement!" Gaffgarion exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation.

"I'm sure you did," Radia said. "Maybe a contact you gave him? Lucrative contract you pointed him towards? Weapons shipment fell off the back of a convoy and you could get it to him for cheap?"

Father and daughter locked eyes.

"One last job," Gaffgarion grunted. "40,000 gil for each of you, and leave to join up with the Black Sheep. What's wrong with that?"

"To start with?" Radia said. "We don't know what the job is."

"Oh, but we will soon enough," Gaffgarion said, waving one hand dismissively. "As soon as we meet our Hokuten contact in Igros."

Ramza's stomach plunged as though he were in free fall. "I'm sorry?" Ramza said.

"Oh, right!" Gaffgarion said. "Sorry, boy, should have mentioned. Guess you're going home for a few days."

Ramza closed his eyes against the flood of memories, thoughts of Delita and Alma, Dycedarg and Zalbaag, Grimms' words and Gaffgarion's deeds. He snorted, and it felt more like a cough.

"Something funny, boy?" Gaffgarion asked.

"If something's too good to be true," Ramza muttered.

Gaffgarion laughed.


	31. Chapter 30: The Safer Lie

(If you want to see my musings on the chapters, grab the pdf of Part One, or look at my other work, be sure to check out quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 30: The Safer Lie**

 _...what is often forgotten is that King Ondoria III was never meant to be king at all. He was the youngest of King Denamda IV's three sons, married to Louveria Larg in order to secure the loyalty of Bestrald Larg and his Hokuten. But after his marriage, Ondoria rose rapidly through the line of succession. His eldest brother had died fighting at their father's side against Romanda: his remaining brother perished of the same strange disease that took their father. Of course, there was no plague in Ivalice at the time, and the reported symptoms did not match the Black Plague that destroyed the Romandans and forced them to withdraw from Ivalice's shores. Some well-meaning scholars have speculated that it was a genetic condition. After all, when Ondoria himself finally died, allowing Queen-mother Louveria to seize control of Ivalice, his symptoms bore a marked resemblance to those of his father and brother, who took ill so soon after Ondoria married his bride..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The Succession Crisis"_

Igros was not the same.

It might have been the two years that had passed, between then and now. It might have been that with the Corps no longer raiding the countryside, Gallione had returned to relative peace and prosperity, as long as you didn't look too close. It might have been a lot of things.

But Ramza was pretty sure it wasn't the city that had changed. It was Ramza himself. The last time he'd been in this city, he'd been a triumphant kid looking for a night on the town. Out with Teta, Delita, Argus, Alma, Beowulf, Reis...

So many hurt. So many dead.

But Ramza was familiar with that old grief and guilt, and could set it aside long enough to admit that even if Igros wasn't tainted with memories of failure and betrayal, he wouldn't have recognized it. The boy who had seen Igros was a scion of the Beoulve family, with gil in his pocket and a name that warranted respect. Every bar and every attraction had opened to him without resistance, subtle and eager to please, to shine with his name or his influence or simply to take his money.

But there were more than enough mercenaries in the world, and whatever respect Gaffgarion commanded in certain circles, it didn't extend to barkeeps and actors, grocers and butchers, the hundred thousand people who made a city tick. Ramza was just a hired thug in their streets, and wary eyes followed him wherever he went—some afraid of what he might do to them, some wondering what they might do to him. The stately, brick-and-mortar order of the city that had seemed so spectacular to him as a cadet felt very different now. It felt like a facade, hiding the same human ugliness that hid in every corner of Ivalice.

Besides which, this was a Hokuten stronghold, and the last thing Ramza wanted was for anyone with contacts to either his days at the Academy or his brothers to get a bead on him.

Fortunately, Gaffgarion was just as wary of catching the wrong kind of attention as Ramza was, and quartered them in a little inn on the outskirts of the city—on the far side from where the Beoulve Manor was located. Making arrangements for this special job with the Hokuten kept him away most hours.

"You're staying in _again_?" demanded Radia, glaring at him.

"I don't think the bartender minds," Ramza said, and the burly man on the other side of the bar chuckled and shook his head.

" _I_ mind!" Radia exclaimed. "Why do I have to wander around this place by myself just because you'd rather mope at the bar?"

"I think your question answers itself," Ramza said.

Radia scowled at him over folded arms. Ramza sighed and looked away from her. "You know why I don't want to be here."

"I know," Radia huffed. "Doens't mean it doesn't piss me off."

"That's fair," Ramza agreed. "How can I make it up to you?"

"Point me somewhere fun!" Radia demanded.

"What are you looking for?"

After some quick questions and jotting down some hasty instructions, Radia left, exasperated but satisfied, with directions to a little theater known for staging both mock battles and burlesque and the location of the Mage's Mystery. Ramza watched her go, his beer in hand, his head delightfully dizzy from his drinks. He smiled a little as the sun beat down on him from the cloudless blue sky, watching Radia stride purposefully across the cobblestones, her red hair bouncing on her back and shoulders. Aside from her, the street was almost empty: Leo had almost given way to Virgo, and the full heat of summer had emptied the streets.

Ramza took another sip from his drink, his head spinning. He didn't like to get drunk—he'd seen so many men and women these last two years hurt because they'd been in their cups when the action started—but here in Igros it was just about the only thing keeping him sane from his gnawing anxiety.

What if Zalbaag heard he was in the city? What if Dycedarg did? What if someone recognized Radia? What if someone recognized Ramza? And memories, too: memories of a Leo nearly three years gone, when Ramza and Delita had come home and so had Alma and Teta and...and...!

Ramza drank a little more deeply with every stab of doubt and grief, until he found his drink was empty. He blinked down at his glass in consternation and stumbled back inside, slumping onto a stool in front of the bartender. He slapped some gil down on the table, and the bartender obediently began to refill his beer.

"Ramza!" barked a high young woman's voice.

Ramza bolted upright, his eyes wide, goosebumps unfurling across his skin. He recognized that voice but it couldn't be. It couldn't. How...?

"Ramza," said the voice, quieter now. "Lugria."

Ramza turned slowly. Alma Beoulve stood in the doorway, her arms folded across her chest, eyes leveled in an imperious glare. The past two years seemed to have thinned her a little—she didn't look quite so young or baby-faced. Her honey-blonde hair was tied back in a severe ponytail. She wore a rough-spun dress of green-and-brown and had a cloth sack over one shoulder.

"How..." Ramza started. "How did you...find me?"

Alma's eyes narrowed into a glare. "Two years," she growled. "Two years and that's the first thing you're gonna say to me?"

She marched across the room, her arms unfolding and curling into fists. "Two years," she said. "Two years without so much as a letter, and all I've got is Reis telling me she and Beowulf don't know what happened and Zal telling me Teta's dead and Dyce telling me you're alive but he doesn't know where and. Two. YEARS!" She came to a stop just in front of him. "What do you have to say for yourself!"

Ramza stared at Alma. Alma stared at Ramza.

"How-" Ramza started again.

"Saint's sake!" she shouted. "I know I'm just a-" she assumed a whining falsetto. "-poor noble girl who's never had military training." Her eyes narrowed, and her voice resumed its usual tone. "But it's still not that hard to spread the word that there's gil waiting for anyone who points me to any Ramzas or Lugrias. Which reminds me." She reached down the front of her dress, pulled out a small pouch bound with twine, and tossed it on the bar. The clinking rattle of coins bouncing together sounded out on impact.

"Much obliged, my lady," the bartender said, inclining his head.

"I'd be obliged if you'd get me a drink and then find something in the storeroom to keep you busy!" snapped Alma.

"What will the lady-"

"Something _strong_."

The bartender inclined his head again and set about fixing her drink. Alma resumed glaring at Ramza, and Ramza found he could not quite bear to meet her eyes. He'd promised her he'd bring Teta home. He'd promised...

He'd failed.

The bartender set the new drink on the bar and disappeared. Alma glanced after him, then said, "We're going up to your room." She grabbed her drink and his wrist and pulled him off his barstool with such force that Ramza almost fell. He barely had time to grab his own drink as she led him to the stairs.

"Alma-" he started.

"Which room is yours!" she said.

"This one," he said, leading her to the large corner suite Gaffgarion had booked for them. He pulled out his key and opened the door, and Alma shoved him inside and locked the door behind him. She immediately took a seat on the sunken couch against the far wall that had served as Radia's bed the last few nights, brushing aside some of Radia's gear. Ramza took a seat on the corner of Gaffgarion's bed.

"Don't trust any man who takes bribes," Alma said. "And didn't want him figuring out we're Beoulves."

Ramza gave her a surprised look. He hadn't known she was so cagey.

"Oh, don't look at me like that!" Alma exclaimed. "I'm not a child!"

"I'm sorry," Ramza said. He felt tears in his eyes, and closed his eyelids to keep them from spilling. "I'm sorry," he repeated.

Alma sighed. "Of course you are," she huffed. "You haven't changed, have you?"

He opened his eyes at once, tears melting away in a flash of anger that warmed his cheeks. "Yes I have."

"No, you haven't," Alma said. "I bet you're still blaming yourself for everything."

Ramza glared at her. "You have no idea what you're talking about."

"No, I don't know _anything_!" Alma shouted. "And whose fault is that! My idiot brothers, keeping me in the goddamn dark all the goddamn time!"

They glared at each other, Alma's arms folded across her chest again. They broke eye contact at the same moment. Alma looked around the room, cocked an eyebrow, and bent over to pick something off the floor—a discarded black bandeau.

"This yours?" Alma asked, twirling it on one finger.

Ramza snatched it away from her, flushing. "No," he said.

"Whose, then?" she demanded.

"My friend," Ramza said.

Alma looked around the room. "Not your only friend, I take it."

"There's three of us," Ramza said.

"Three of you," Alma repeated. "And what have you been doing?"

Ramza shrugged. "I'm a mercenary," he said.

Alma shook her head. "Why?"

Ramza snorted. "I trained as a soldier, didn't I?" Ramza said.

"Yeah, but you didn't _like_ it."

"And you liked the Igros Academy?" Ramza countered.

"No one likes the Igros Academy."

"But you still went."

Alma huffed. "You wanna try convincing Dyce not to marry me off?"

Of course. Dycedarg planned for Alma's future, as he planned for Larg's. Everywhere Ramza looked, he felt his brother's shadow.

"Ramza?" Alma asked. "You okay?"

"Fine," Ramza mumbled, and took another drink.

Silence again. Alma was studying him without anger in her eyes, and that was somehow worse. She was looking at him with kindness, almost with understanding. But mostly, she was looking at him with pity.

"I haven't been back there, you know," Alma said abruptly. "To the Academy. Not since..."

She trailed off. Ramza didn't look at her.

"So where?" he asked, staring at his drink. "The Manor?"

Alma laughed. "As if," she said. "No, they shipped me off to Orbonne. You know it?"

"I don't," Ramza said.

"It's a bit south of Dorter," she said. "Pretty close to the Mullonde Sea. Father Simon is really nice, and it's got this fantastic library, and..." Her eyes glowed a little. "Ramza. Ramza, guess who I met!"

"Who?" Ramza asked.

"Princess Ovelia," Alma answered smugly.

Ramza nodded. "I'm glad for you."

She scowled at him. "Why are you being such an asshole?"

"Maybe I am one."

"You...!" Alma trailed off and took a deep breath. She raised her drink to her lip and downed half of it in one gulp.

Ramza was being an ass. He knew that. His sister was trying to reconnect with him, sharing something interesting, and it was interesting, wasn't it, Ovelia was practically a recluse by now, consigned to convent after convent by a Queen who resented any claim she could make over her beloved son, and Alma had actually met her.

"I saw Reis, you know," Alma said. "After everything."

Reis and Beowulf. Ramza still didn't know what had happened to them. He'd considered sending letters, but then realized he didn't know where to send them to. He'd also considered asking Master Daravon where they were, but then realized that Daravon would have no way to reply to him. Perhaps Alma knew.

"Are they alright?" Ramza asked.

Alma nodded. "Last I heard, they were in Lionel."

"Lionel?" Ramza repeated. "Why?"

"Oh, you didn't know?" Alma said. "Beowulf joined the Templars."

Ramza blinked. "I'm surprised they'd have him."

"I think Reis had something to do with that," Alma said. "And the Bishop helped, I think. He's working with Cardinal Delacroix now, so I guess he took Reis and Beowulf with him."

So Beowulf was alright. Ramza had hoped, but...but it was much different to know. To know that at least some of his friends had survived that disaster, and were living happy lives somewhere else.

Tears stinging in his eyes again. Ramza tried to surreptitiously wipe them away.

"So Reis told you about...about the Valkyries?" Ramza asked.

"That they almost killed you guys?" Alma said, fingering the hilt of Radia's sword. "Yeah. And about Wiegraf."

Alarms in Ramza's head. "What about Wiegraf?" Ramza asked.

"That he was waiting for you," Alma said. "That he thought you'd killed his sister. That he'd ordered Teta to be freed. And...about Teta being..." Her eyes were softer now. "So you guys were going after her, when...when she..."

"Yes," Ramza said.

Silence again. Ramza stared down at the wooden floorboards, feeling hollow inside. He was grateful to Reis—she hadn't shared what Wiegraf had told them, about Dycedarg's deeds and his aims. But his head was still spinning with drink, and now that feeling seemed to accentuate and amplify the old grief and failure. No amount of gratitude could alleviate that feeling.

He took a desperate swig from his glass, hoping to drown that feeling. Across from him, Alma lifted her own glass to her lips. She downed its contents, closed her eyes, and shuddered.

"What happened at Zeakden, Ramza?" Alma asked.

Ramza closed his eyes in turn. "What did Zal tell you?"

"That you were too late," she said. "Both of you."

Liar. That lying monster, who'd ordered her death, and for what? So he could slaughter the men whose only crime had been rebelling against a broken promise? And now he kept lying, pretending he was innocent, pretending he was too late. No, Ramza had been too late—too late to realize the truth, and too late to stop Zal and Argus. Too late to side with Radia and Wiegraf.

He opened his mouth to tell her everything. To tell her what Dycedarg had done, responsible for the wrongs that had set the Corps on their grim path and manipulated them into self-destruction. To tell her of Zalbaag's broken promise and his fatal order.

"I was," Ramza said. "Too late."

"But what _happened_?" Alma insisted.

"By...by the time Delita and I got there," Ramza said. "Teta had been...taken hostage. Against Wiegraf's order, I guess, but still, and...and Zalbaag..."

Ramza took a steadying breath, searching for the right words. And as he did, he remembered Reis. Reis, closer to Alma than he was. Reis, who hadn't told her the truth.

The question was, why? Why not tell her? But the answer was obvious, wasn't it?

"Zalbaag and...and the other Hokuten...they'd been hit," Ramza said. "Tied up fighting, and...and by the time Delita and I..." He closed his eyes. "It was too late."

"And Delita?" Alma demanded.

"He...he went after the man who..." Ramza swallowed. "But he...he was hurt, and I...I finished it."

"You..." She trailed off, staring at him. "Ramza, you..."

"I killed him," Ramza said, and Argus' face and desperate curses flashed through his mind once more.

"Oh," she said. Her hands were folded in her lap, and for a moment they clenched together.

"Delita?" she asked.

"He was...he was hurt," Ramza said. "We both were, and...and when the fort blew..." He closed his eyes. "He didn't make it."

She closed her eyes and shook her head. "Both of them,'

Silence again. Ramza closed his eyes. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to remember.

"So why didn't you come back?" she asked. "Why didn't you-" There were tears in Alma's voice, and Ramza looked up and found her eyes were scrunched closed as she tried not to cry, her cheeks flushed. "Didn't even write if Dyce hadn't told me I'd have thought you were...you were...!"

She drew a deep, shaky breath that was almost a sob. Ramza felt his tears burning more strongly now, and drew his own trembling breath.

"I promised you, Alma," he said. "And I couldn't...I couldn't...!"

Alma rose from the couch, rushed to him and wrapped her arms around him, and they held each other, both sobbing, grieving, and the room was spinning and the world was spinning and Ramza could take no comfort in his sister's embrace or her understanding because she couldn't understand because he couldn't let her. He couldn't keep her safe, either. If he told her what Zalbaag and Dycedarg had done, she would try to leave, and Ramza had seen enough of the world now. He knew what would happen, with Alma's name and all the enemies and opportunities that came with it. Look at what had happened to Teta, just pretending.

Ramza couldn't save Teta. He couldn't save Delita. He doubted he could save Alma. The best he could do was make sure that she never needed saving.

A lock clicked in the door. Ramza blinked, opened his eyes as it swung open, and found Radia standing on the other side. Her mouth was slightly open.

"Should I..." she started. "Should I leave?"

Ramza felt his cheeks flush with embarrassment. Alma bolted to her feet, wiping her eyes. "I'm sorry!" she said. "You must be one of Ramza's friends!"

Radia looked between them in confusion. "I guess?"

"Radia," Ramza said, wiping his own eyes. "This is my sister."

"Oh!" Radia exclaimed. "You're Alma?" Her eyes narrowed in worry. "Wait, should she be here? It's not a great neighborhood."

"Not a great..." Alma repeated. "Wait. She knows you're-"

"She knows," Ramza said. "She..." Ramza wasn't exactly sure what to say here. "She was trying to save Teta, same as me," Ramza said. "And when the fort blew, she...she got me out."

"Oh," Alma said, and her voice was suddenly small.

"Don't listen to this idiot," Radia scoffed. "He saved me first."

"I didn't-" Ramza started.

"And it's not like I actually got Teta out," Radia said. "Saint's sake, if I hadn't been such a fucking idiot, I-"

Alma crossed the room, stumbling a little—apparently that drink had hit her harder than Ramza had realized. She put her hands on Radia's shoulders and looked up into the taller woman's face. "Thank you," Alma said.

"Really, I didn't-" Radia broke off. "Wait. You need to go."

"I do?" Alma said.

Radia looked over her head to Ramza. "Dad's on his way back," Radia said. "Saw him coming down the street."

Oh no. No, Ramza didn't know what would happen if he let Gaffgarion meet Alma, but he had no intention of finding out, especially not after this latest twist of the knife with Grimms.

"Hurry," Ramza said, grabbing his sister's wrist and hauling her out of the room, pulling her quickly down the stairs. He nodded to the bartender, who gave him a baffled look as Ramza pulled Alma through the kitchen.

"What are you doing!" squawked the innkeep, a burly man with illustrious curly dark locks spilling down his shoulders whose tattooed arms were whisking, stirring, and sauteeing what looked like a half dozen different pots and pans. "Out, out!"

Ramza stepped past him, still pulling his sister.

"What _are_ you doing?" Alma asked.

"I don't want you meeting my boss," Ramza said

"What's wrong with your boss?"

"The same thing that's wrong with everything else." He reached the kitchen door and led her into a stinking alley between the inn and the neighboring tailor's. "You need to go."

"You need to write!" Alma said.

"Alma, not now-"

"Now," Alma insisted. "Or I'm marching back in there to meet your boss."

Ramza stared at her. Alma stared defiantly back.

"I'll write," he said. "I promise."

"You'd better," she said, and shoved the bag over her shoulder into his arms.

"What's this?" Ramza asked.

"Your birthday present," she said. "It's tomorrow, right?"

Ramza stared at her. He felt something thick and warm rising in his chest, and he felt his eyes burning again. "Alma-" he started.

"Stay safe, Ramza," she said, and embraced him, and Ramza hugged her back and closed his burning eyes and felt, for the first time in a long time, just a little bit at home.

Then the moment passed, and Alma hurried down the alley, and Ramza hurried back through the kitchen.

"Again!" boomed the innkeep, and Ramza mumbled apologies that he was pretty sure the innkeep couldn't hear over all the yelling and rushed past him and out into the main room where Radia was already waiting for him with a half-smile on her narrow face.

"There's gil in it if you forget you saw her," Ramza said to the barkeep.

"Saw who?" the barkeep asked.

"Good man," Ramza said. "And there's more if you can calm him down."

"I am not the Saint," huffed the barkeep. "I can promise no miracles." But he left the bar and re-entered the kitchen.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" howled the innkeep, before the door closed, and and that moment Gaffgarion entered the room in an ornate red tunic with a pattern of black roses embroidered around the collar, tucked into pressed white trousers bound with a black cord. He shot a quizzical glance at the kitchen door.

"What in hell?" he asked.

"Lovers' quarrel," Radia said without missing a beat.

"Huh." Gaffgarion jerked his head upwards, and climbed the stairs. Radia grabbed her drink and followed after, with Ramza trailing behind. She held the door to their room open until he'd entered. Gaffgarion had Ramza's beer in one hand, and Alma's drink in the other.

"Mixing and matching?" Gaffgarion inquired. Ramza shrugged, trying to mask the adrenaline shock through his veins, and Gaffgarion laughed. "No accounting for taste." He clapped his hands together, and said, "We've earned a few drinks. We've cause to celebrate tonight."

"Contract's been approved?" Radia said.

"With some lucrative bonuses attached," Gaffgarion said.

"And do we finally get to know what it is?"

Gaffgarion rubbed his chin thoughtfully, his mouth spread in a sardonic grin beneath his bristling mustache. "Well, _I_ get to know..." he said.

"Dad," Radia said warningly.

"How about I make you guess, dear daughter mine?" Gaffgarion asked.. "Ramza can play, too. First clue: we're going to Orbonne Monastery."

Ramza's head jerked in in surprise before he could stop himself. Gaffgarion cocked his head. "Ramza?" he said. "You have a guess?"

"I..." Ramza wasn't sure if it was more suspicious to pretend he knew or pretend he didn't. He decided to split the difference. "I...think I heard that it's a popular place to educate noblewomen," Ramza said. "Are we guarding someone important?"

"Oooh, got it in one!" Gaffgarion exclaimed. "But can you guess who we're guarding?"

It really seemed like Gaffgarion didn't know. Should Ramza double down? "It had better not be Alma," Ramza growled, and he didn't have to fake the anger in his voice. "We had a deal-"

"Easy, boy!" Gaffgarion said, holding up a forestalling hand. "No, there's only one person left worth guarding at Orbonne." Gaffgarion's grin widened, and Ramza knew what he was going to say before he spoke. "The Princess Ovelia Atkascha."


	32. Chapter 31: The Lionesses

(If you want to see my musings on the chapters, grab the pdf of Part One, or look at my other work, be sure to check out quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 31: The Lionesses**

 _...letters, council minutes, and the private notes of prominent figures across Medieval Ivalice agree that Ovelia's intrusion onto the national stage was unexpected. Ovelia was a historical inconvenience for the royal family, whose nebulous position in the line of royal succession created a headache in matters of politics, diplomacy, and ceremony. King Ondoria III adopted her at behest of the Lords' Senate, fearing that they would be left without a clear line of succession in wartime after the death of Ondoria's young son. She already had some small claim on the throne as the youngest of Denamda's children: by adopting her, Ondoria guaranteed a successor. Queen Louveria never spoke publicly in support of this adoption: whatever her feelings towards it, it is hard to argue that Orinus' birth moved her privately but firmly against this problematic princess, as shortly thereafter Ovelia left the Lion's Den and never returned, moving from one monastery to the next as a sign of goodwill between the Glabados Church and the royal family. Her portion of the royal stipend was systematically redirected, depriving her of monetary, political, or military capital. Even her security resources were hamstrung, so that soon only the most stubborn and loyal guards remained..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The War of the Lions"_

"It's beautiful," Ramza whispered.

Orbonne Monastery was nestled between the rolling green hills that made up so much of this part of southern Gallione. It must have been important to the Ydorans, because one of their immaculate roads led right to it, a winding white-paved trail snaking its way between the hills. Its white dome gleamed as they rounded one last hill, set back before a broad pavilion of white brick spreading out around it. The gleaming ribbon of a stream wove its way through the scene, babbling under a bridge and condensing into a pool, swirling around a turning waterwheel and drifting beneath the Monastery before it bubbled on its merry way out into the hills. Tall conifer trees planted at regular intervals rustled in the rising wind, and the gathering stormclouds above contrasted nicely with the dingy glamor of the Monaster, giving it a peculiarly lovely aspect of fragile order beneath weighty grey skies.

"And defensible," Gaffgarion muttered, looking around the little valley formed by the hills around them. "Little exposed, though..."

"Dad," Radia said under her breath, rolling her head on her shoulders in a way that seemed to somehow indicate the hilltops in front of them.

"I see them," Gaffgarion whipsered back.

"See what?" Ramza asked.

Gaffgarion and Radia exchanged glances. "You think he can?" Gaffgarion asked.

"He knows a little," Radia said. "He's not bad."

Gaffgarion nodded. "Straight ahead, boy," the mercenary said, pointing towards the dome of the monastery, and Ramza followed his pointing finger. Out off the corner of his mouth, Gaffgarion added, "Keep your eyes straight ahead, but focus on the corner of your gaze."

Ramza blinked, cocked his head, tried to make sense of the instruction. Focus on something without looking at it? How did that work? He kept wanting to look around, but Gaffgarion and Radia were clearly trying to hide their ability to see something, so he couldn't really ask any follow-up questions.

But he saw nothing.

"Like when you're fighting me, Ramza," Radia said, her voice low but good-humored, as though she were remiscing about something. "You can kinda sense the field changing, right?"

That was true: a pressure in his mind and in his heart, something not quite physical and not quite mental, an awareness of the way she was using her own magical field to-

Wait! There! He could almost see it, like a flash of sunlight on metal or the mirage shimmer of heat against stone. Something rippled in the corner of his gaze, a distortion in the light set squarely atop one of the nearby hills.

"Oh," Ramza said, nodding.

"Magic trick," Gaffgarion said, his voice low but cheerful, as though he were cracking a joke. He kept gesturing the Monastery, as though the building was the subject of his conversation "There's an instructor at the Magic Academy in Gariland who dug it up. Apparently the Ydorans used it for stealth units...anyways, some of the recent Academy graduates know how to do it."

"But you can spot it?" Ramza said.

"It's basic field manipulation," Gaffgarion said. "That's the kinda stuff Vampire Knights excel at. Besides, you could see it too, couldn't you?"

True. But Ramza wasn't aware of doing anything special: all he'd really done was try

"So what do we do?" Ramza asked.

"Odds are they're the Princess' guards," Gaffgarion said. "They'll either stop us or let us pass."

Gaffgarion's eyes were glittering. Ramza swallowed. "And if they attack?"

Gaffgarion did not answer, but his mouth tugged up into a feral smile. He started walking: Ramza moved to follow, pulling their pack chocobo along behind them.

"Halt!" shouted a high woman's voice.

Ramza stopped at once. Gaffgarion whirled about with an overexaggerated expression of confusion. If you didn't know the man, you might not be able to see the way his lips were twitching and his mustache bristling as he tried not to smile. "Who goes there?" Gaffgarion demanded, with an edge of comical panic.

"We're asking the questions," said a different voice, a little softer, a little deeper and Radia bent low, covering her mouth and trying not to laugh.

"Of course, of course," Gaffgarion said, wiping a hand across his brow. "My apologies. I'm Geoffrey Gaffgarion. My associates and I are here to reinforce the Lionsguard."

"And who says the Lionesses need reinforcing?" demanded the first voice.

Gaffgarion shook his head frantically. "Not I!" he cried. "But I do the work I'm paid to do." His voice assumed a plaintive cantor. "May I be permitted to see the faces of my interrogators?"

There was a moment's silence, and then the faint shimmers flashed and shifted, resolving themselves into the shape of two women. One had brown hair so light as to verge on blonde: the other's was of a deep mahogany brown. The lighter-haired woman was wire-thin, more angular even than Radia, and wore loose leather armor. She held a silver rod in one hand, crested by a round green stone that flashed with the suggestion of letters and runes at its heart. The darker-haired woman wore a tunic and trousers, which clung tight to wide hips and a prodigious bust. She held a shepherd's crook in one hand which had glowing runes etched into almost every inch of its pale brown wood, and wore the red-and-white triangles of a Healer on her shoulders.

Gaffgarion whirled about in wild confusion. "Where did you come from!" he demanded.

"Don't move!" said the high voice of the light-haired woman, gesturing with her rod. The stone at the tip glowed, and left a line of light in the air behind it. Gaffgarion froze again.

"Present your papers," the dark-haired woman said, with a deeper, more cautious voice, and she started to descend the hill.

Gaffgarion reached a hand out towards Ramza: Ramza obediently rustled through one of the pack chocobo's saddlebags, until he found the orders carrying the seal of the Hokuten. He passed it to Gaffgarion, who held it up for the inspection of the woman carrying the shepherd's crook. She snatched it from Gaffgarion's hand and examined it closely.

"These appear to be legitimate!" she called up the hill.

The light-haired woman snorted. "Hokuten think _we_ need help."

The dark-haired woman shrugged and handed the papers back to Gaffgarion. This close, Ramza could see she had a pleasant heart-shaped face, with expressive blue eyes and full lips. "I'll take them inside, Alicia!" she called to her counterpart up the hill. "I think it's high time Katherine and Ysabel relieved us, don't you?"

"Please!" Alicia scoffed. "The two of them together aren't worth one of me, let alone one of _you_." The light-haired woman pressed the tip of her rod against her chest. A moment later, and she had shimmered out of view again.

"What was _that_?" Gaffgarion asked, in a tone of sardonic awe.

"Magic," the dark-haired woman said stiffly. "You'll have to get use to it. The Lionesses aren't your ordinary soldiers."

"Oh, I can see that," Gaffgarion agreed with fawning admiration. As the woman with the shepherd's crook led them away from the little pass and towards the Monastery proper, Gaffgarion flashed a mocking grin only Radia and Ramza could see.

The polished stone doors to the Monastery opened on approach, and a man and a woman stepped through them and onto the tree-lined pavilion The man was old and bald, with a thick white beard hanging halfway down his yellow robe. He moved at an awkward shuffle. Besides him was a blonde woman whose hair fell in a curtain down her back, save for two ringlets draped around her ears. She wore blue armor in the classical Ydoran style—the segmented scales that allowed for light weight, flexibility, and maximum protection, along with charms built into them to amplify the wearer's natural abilities. Her hand rested on the sword at her side, and dismissive blue eyes flickered over each of them in turn.

"Lavian," grunted the woman. "What have you brought me?"

"Hokuten reinforcements, Captain," said the dark-haired woman

The blonde woman's lip curled. "Mercenaries," she spat.

Gaffgarion sketched a little bow. "Such as we are, my lady."

"Times were the Lionsguard would never stoop so low," she grunted.

"It is not my place to speculate on such matters," Gaffgarion said. "Shall I assume you are Captain Agrias Oaks?"

"If you haven't figured that much out, what good are you?" asked Agrias.

Gaffgarion's eyes flashed with rage, just for a moment. Then they were deferrent again, and he answered her in a civil tone. "Not much, perhaps," Gaffgarion said. "But your commanders seemed to think the princess wasn't safe as she was."

Agrias' eyes boiled with rage. Gaffgarion stared steadily back.

At Agrias' side, the bald man coughed, setting the silver Virgo symbol on his neck clattering against his thin chest. He turned rheumy eyes upon Gaffgarion. "It is good that the Princess will have additional protection," the old man said, in a deep, creaking voice. "In such difficult times, all helping hands are welcome."

The old man placed a gentle hand on Agrias' shoulder. Agrias gave him a quick look, then closed her eyes as her nostrils flared.

"You are Geoffrey Gaffgarion," Agrias said, eyes still firmly closed. "The two with you?"

"My daughter, Radia Gaffgarion," Gaffgarion said quickly, before either Radia or Ramza could speak. "And my apprentice, Ramza Lugria."

At Ramza's name, the bald man at Agrias' side blinked. For a moment, the weary age parted like clouds slipping past the sun, revealing bright dark eyes beneath the folds of wrinkles. "Ramza and Radia," muttered the man. "Fine names."

Agrias nodded stiffly, and her eyes flashed open. "Welcome to Orbonne. Not that we'll be staying long."

"Indeed?" Gaffgarion said. "And where are we going?"

Agrias gave Gaffgarion a suspicious glare. "Surely you know."

"I do not," Gaffgarion said. "I believe I was given as little information as possible, for the security of the princess."

"Hmmph," grunted Agrias. "At least the Hokuten command aren't all fools...we're escorting the Princess back to Lesalia."

"Of course," Gaffgarion said. "With the unrest across Ivalice, it would be best to protect the royal family with the full force of the army."

"Quite," Agrias said. She gestured towards the sky. "We were set to leave tomorrow at dawn, but we may be delayed by the storm."

Gaffgarion shrugged. "Our contract specified that we are at your disposal until the Princess has been made safe," he said. "If that means Lesalia, so be it."

"You're quite cavalier about all this," Agrias snapped.

"I am a professional, my lady," Gaffgarion said. "I do as I am told."

"You're a dishonored sellsword," Agrias hissed. "And the fact that the Crown has resorted to doing business with the likes of you-"

"Agrias!" reprimanded the priest at her side. "Whatever their pasts or motivations, they are here to see the Princess to safety!"

"We don't need them" Agrias barked, and turned away, striding back through the doors.

Lavian sighed and tapped the tip of her shepherd's crook against her forehead. She looked at the priest and said, "I apologize, Father Simon."

"Nothing to apologize for," the priest said. "Your Captain is a proud woman. Just see that she tempers her pride with grace and humility."

"I will try," Lavian said. "Katherine and Ysabel?"

"Asleep in their quarters," the priest replied.

"I'd best go and wake them," Lavian said, starting to walk away.

Before she'd taken more than a step, Simon snapped out a forestalling hand. "A moment, Lavian," he said. "We should show our guests their quarters. We've no idea how long this storm may strand us, and they should be situated before they begin their guard duties."

"I suppose," Lavian said, though she sounded anything but certain.

"Good." The priest turned to Ramza, Gaffgarion, and Radia. "Welcome to Orbonne Monastery," Simon said. "I am Father Simon, the overseer and caretaker of all who dwell within these walls. Which," he chuckled. "Is a rather small handful at the moment."

"A pleasure, Father," Gaffgarion said, sketching the Virgo symbol upon his chest. Radia followed suit, and after a moment's hesitation, so did Ramza. It had been so long since he'd stepped inside a Church without having a funeral to attend, so he did not often have to make the symbol. Even when he'd attended Church, he'd never really felt comfortable with the trappings and the fervor, the zealous belief he didn't share.

"The pleasure is mine," Simon said, sketching the symbol in the air. "Whatever your birth or profession, all are welcome in the arms of the Church. Come."

He turned and began to shuffle inside. Lavian sighed, and followed. Gaffgarion and Radia exchanging exchanged amused glances and walked after her. Ramza hastily tied up their pack chocobo on a nearby post, then trailed along behind.

"How many entrances?" Gaffgarion asked.

"Two," the priest replied. "These main doors-" he indicated the wide stone doors around them. "And a rear door guarded by high-level Ydoran magic kept private to members of the Church. There are also extensive libraries below the Monastery proper, but these are kept locked, and I must ask you to refrain from entering if you should happen to find an open door. None but members of the Church and approved guests-"

"Of course," Gaffgarion said.

The front door opened directly onto a gorgeous chapel, rows of pews stretching forwards to the altar, the grey storm light filtered through the stained glass windows on all sides. 12 in total, spaced evenly around the room, and directly above these grand windows were smaller circular ones, each bearing a different mark of the zodiac, with Virgo at its customary 12 o'clock position, directly visible from the door.

And there, in front of the altar, directly beneath the stained glass window depicting Ajora's body hanging from the walls of Mullonde with the fires of the Fall burning at his feet, knelt the Princess Ovelia.

Her hair was a luxurious, silken gold, tied together in an elaborate braid that fell well past her shoulders. She wore a red cloak across her shoulders, and her hands were folded in front of her as she prayed. Agrias stood just behind her, hand resting on her sword, silent and stone-faced. She turned accusing eyes upon them the moment they entered the room. Simon beckoned to her, and Agrias glanced between the priest and the Princess and moved quietly towards them.

"Captain Oaks," Simon said in a low voice. "I believe it would be wise for the Princess to meet her new protectors."

Agrias' eyes narrowed. "There's no need for her to sully herself with the likes of them." She turned a dismissive glare on Gaffgarion.

"Quite right," Gaffgarion whispered. "We'll do our part-"

"And if there should be a crisis?" Simon whispered, his dark eyes suddenly blazing. "If you or your Lionnesses should fall, Captain Oaks?"

"That will not happen," Agrias said at once.

"Are you God, that you can ordain what can and cannot be?" asked Simon. Agrias grimaced, but did not answer. Simon continued, "If you were to fall, and these three were to be the last ones left to take her to Lesalia, how could you ask her to trust them when she does not even know their names?"

Agrias hesitated, looked between Simon, Gaffgarion, Ramza, Radia, and the Princess. At last she nodded. "Quietly," she said. "We'll wait until she's finished."

She led them down the aisle, and as quietly as they tried to move their footsteps echoed through the tall domed room, the soles of shoes and boots on stone ringing across the dusty pews and bouncing off the stained glass. On closer examination, there was a slight feeling of decay to Orbonne: immaculate though the windows were, lovely as the stonework was, it did not feel as if it were regularly cleaned.

Agrias came to a stop several feet from Ovelia's back. The Princess continued her prayers as though she had not heard them approach. After several seconds, Gaffgarion noisily cleared his throat. Agrias turned a disbelieving glare upon on him.

"-and help us, your sinful children of Ivalice, regardless of station. For even the high may be impure, and the lowest pure: for even the evil are capable of good, and the good of evil, and by the grace of your Saint we may all yet be redeemed." Ovelia's voice was low but clear, speaking with confidence. She signed the Virgo symbol, then rose to her feet and turned to face them, brushing the dust from her knees.

She looked exactly like Alma's drawing, but a charcoal sketch could not capture the deep brown of her eyes, or the mild tan of her face. The eyes were large in contrast to her slender nose, and and her pink lips were pressed into a thin, nervous line. Since her hair was pulled back, it made her forehead look especially broad, a contrast heightened by her thin cheeks and pointed chin. Ramza couldn't help but notice that both cloak and dress seemed of poor quality for a member of the royal family—he was pretty sure that even Teta had worn better clothes on some occasions when she was clad only in Alma's hand-me-downs.

"Are you dogs, to be so ill-mannered?" Agrias snapped. "You dare to stay standing in the presence of the Princess?"

Idiot Ramza! It had been so long since he'd worked with anyone of true standing, he'd forgotten! Worse still, he'd been gaping at her like a lusting child! He fell to one knee at once, his head bowed low. After a moment's reluctant hesitation, Gaffgarion and Radia followed suit.

"I apologize, your Highness," Ramza rattled off quickly, his cheeks flushed. "We have spent much time in the field, and have forgotten the respect due your station."

"No excuses!" Agrias exclaimed.

"It's alright, Agrias," Ovelia said. Her voice was softer now, much less certain that it had been during her prayers. "Stand, please. These floors can be terribly uncomfortable. Who are you?"

"Reinforcements, your Highness," Gaffgarion said, rising at once. "The Hokuten command thought your guard could do with soldiers of our caliber-"

"Of your caliber?" Agrias demanded incredulously.

"Of proven worth and merit, on and off the battlefield," Gaffgarion said. "We are at your disposal, your Highness."

"Well, that's nice," Ovelia said. "But who exactly are you?"

"I am Geoffrey Gaffgarion," he said. "With me are my daughter, Radia, and my apprentice, Ramza."

Ovelia nodded at each name, looking at them in turn. Her eyes lingered for a moment on Ramza, then turned back to Gaffgarion. "I see," she said. "You're to join my escort?"

"We are, your Highness," Gaffgarion said.

"Thank you for your help."

"No thanks are necessary, your Highness. We are merely doing the job we were paid to do." Gaffgarion inclined his head. "By your leave, your Highness. We have been on the road for some time, and would like to rest before beginning our duties."

"Of course," Ovelia said. "Lavian, will you show them to their rooms?"

"Yes, your Highness," Lavian said, and led them away from the princess. As they left the chapel behind, the priest, the princess, and Agrias began to talk quickly in hushed voices.

"A mite tense around here, hm?" Gaffgarion said as they left the chapel.

"I do not know what you are referring to," Lavian said stiffly.

"I see." Gaffgarion said nothing else as Lavia led them down a short set of stone stairs and into a rough-hewn stone hallway, with four doors set in the walls between the glowing runes that illuminated the hall. She stopped in front of the door first door on the left and knocked upon it.

"Simon?" called a girl's voice.

"Who else would knock?" asked a different voice.

"It's Lavian," Lavian said. "But I've got the reinforcements with me."

"Oh, Saint!" hissed the second voice, and there was the hissing and rustling of fabrics pulled against each other—the sound of someone hastily getting dressed, if Ramza was any judge of such things.

Lavian sighed. "You were supposed to be ready to relieve me and Alicia-"

"You always come and get us!" grumbled the second voice.

"Sorry we're not always holding your hands," retorted Lavian. "Are you soldiers or schoolgirls?"

The door creaked open. A very young-looking woman with her auburn hair cropped short stood at stiff attention on the other side. Just behind her, a woman whose head was haloed by a mass of blonde ringlets finished adjusting a chestplate.

"Soldiers, ma'am," said the blonde girl.

"You might be, Ysabel," admitted Lavian. "Katherine, on the other hand..."

Katherine scowled and brushed past Lavian without a word, heading towards the stairs. Ysabel mumbled an apology and followed. Lavian watched them go, then jerked her head back down the hall without looking at them. "Far right corner," Lavian said. "Left corner's the lavatory. No locks on the doors. Captain'll come talk to you soon."

"Thank-" Gaffgarion started, and Lavian stepped through the door and closed it behind her. "You," Gaffgarion finished. He paused for a moment, then shrugged and moved to the door she'd indicated. The door inside was smaller than the room they'd had at the inn, with four narrow cots in each corner and a single rune set in the ceiling.

Gaffgarion closed the door behind them and looked around the little room, his head cocked slightly so he could hear if anyone had stepped into the hallway. When he was sure no one was listening, he said, "What a cunt."

"Dad!" Radia exclaimed.

"Oh, you disagree?" Gaffgarion said. "All cunts, all led by the biggest fucking cunt I've ever-"

"Dad!" Radia shouted, louder. "You know I don't like that word."

"Well that, oh daughter mine," Gaffgarion grunted. "Is too fucking bad. I've earned the right to call a cunt a cunt."

Radia scowled at her father.

"The Princess seemed nice enough," Ramza said.

Gaffgarion gave him a measuring look. "I suppose she did," Gaffgarion admitted. "Black sheep that she is."

"Not that much of a black sheep, given how much we're getting paid to guard her," Ramza said.

"You think not?" Gaffgarion asked. "Consider how much they're willing to pay for men and women of a proven reputation. Consider the cost of our contract and the quality of her clothes. No, I think someone in the Hokuten command is very wary of what may befall the Princess."

"Someone?" Ramza prompted, his head full of Zalbaag and Gaffgarion.

"Relax, boy," Gaffgarion snorted. "Not your brothers. Zalbaag doesn't play these games, and Dyce wouldn't waste time hiring me through a proxy. He'd probably use you, eh?"

Was that true? Ramza wasn't sure anymore. Not if what Wiegraf had said was true. Not after seeing how Zalbaag broke his word.

Footsteps in the hallway. Gaffgarion turned to the door as it burst open without so much as a knock. Agrias glared between them.

"We need to discuss our plans," she said.

"I quite agree," Gaffgarion said. "And am at your disposal. But you will knock before entering our quarters in all future dealings." For the first time, Gaffgarion's annoyance and frustration were in the open, expressed in the sardonic fire of his voice.

Agrias glared at him. Gaffgarion folded his arms across his chest. Slowly, Agrias nodded. "I apologize," she said. "Please. If this storm hits, we'll have to make new arrangements."

"I understand," Gaffgarion said, and stepped into the hall.

Almost as soon as Gaffgarion left the room, Radia moved to Ramza. She was still scowling after her father. "It looked just like the drawing," Radia said.

"I know," Ramza said, fishing the loose-bound leather book out of his satchel. It was part of Alma's gift to him—besides pen and paper (with a cheerful admonishment that she didn't know if he was too lazy to buy his own), she'd given him a book of her sketches. He flipped past the first few charcoal drawings, a little pang in his heart as he saw the aqueduct-laden landscape of the Beoulve estate. He hurriedly turned past the sketches of Dycedarg bent low over a desk and Zalbaag sparring with some faceless knight, and came to a stop on Alma's drawing of Ovelia, with a book in her lap and a little halo of sunshine behind her.

"Your sister's got talent," Radia said.

"I didn't know," Ramza said.

"Want to help me unpack the bird?" Radia asked.

"Give me a moment?"

"Sure thing." She patted him reassuringly on the back, and left the room. Ramza flipped past the picture, to the end of the book—past women in dresses he didn't recognize, past what he thought was a sketch of one of the stained-glass windows from the chapel, until he got to near the end of the book. He stopped there, as he had the last few nights when he looked at the sketchbook. He studied the details of the woman—the high cheekbones and the wary eyes, the tousled hair, darker and longer than Alma's. Clay-red, though of course Alma's sketch didn't show that. That was Ramza's memory, filling in the details of the woman he'd failed to save.

And just past her, Delita's profile looked off into the distance, dark eyes somehow alive and intelligent as they had been in life, his squire's bowl a little messy, a practice sword in one hand.

Ramza sighed, put the sketchbook away, and went to help Radia.


	33. Chapter 32: The Storm

(if you're enjoying the story and want more content, please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 32: The Storm**

 _...how is young Orinus? My nephew looks stronger by the day (and fortunately seems to take after his mother, rather than his late father). I have no doubt he will make a fine king. Indeed, I would not be surprised if he can be properly crowned in the near future: it seems to me his reign cannot possibly be contested and, God-willing, any would-be challengers will surely meet with unpleasant ends..._

 _-Excerpt from a letter to Queen-Mother Louveria from Bestrald Larg_

By the time Radia and Ramza's watch had come, and they had replaced Katherine and Ysabel upon the hilltops, the grey clouds had begun a low, miserable drizzle. As the night wore on, the drizzle gradually intensified into a steady downpour and then into a full-on thunderstorm, complete with wild winds and the cracking of lightning across the sodden skies. Ramza and Radia wore cloaks over their armor and gear, but the water fell with such force and fury that it found every crack, soaked through every layer, so Ramza's whole body was one damp misery.

"I can't see anything!" he shouted to Radia, just in time for thunder to drown out his words.

"What!" she bellowed back.

He repeated himself, louder, and she nodded and shouted something back.

"What!" Ramza called.

She tried again, and he caught only a few words: "...a good thing...hired to..."

He assumed it was an attempt at a joke and simply nodded back, trying to smile. He didn't feel like shouting himself hoarse against the raging storm.

The thick darkness of a stormy night gradually gave way to the gloomy grey of a rain-soaked dawn, and Lavian and Alicia came out to relieve them. Ramza and Radia trudged inside (Ramza stopped to pat their damp chocobo soothingly where it shuddered beneath the monastery eaves) only to find that Gaffgarion and Agrias were awake and feuding.

"-you know leaving would be rank idiocy!" fumed Gaffgarion, his calm composure lost.

"What I know or do not know does not concern _you_ , knave!" barked Agrias. "I am in command here!"

"Ah, so when an idiot asks us to rush to our deaths, I'm to gleefully obey?" scoffed Gaffgarion.

"Idiot!" hissed Agrias, outraged.

Ramza trudged on without stopping. He was too tired and to damp to try and quiet the argument. But when he rounded the corner, he found Ovelia standing on the other side, her eyes lost in though. She wore a different dress today, white instead of blue, though she still wore the traveling cloak around her shoulders. Even in his surprise, Ramza couldn't help but notice that her clothes still seemed oddly shabby for her station.

A moment's shocked stillness. Then Ramza fell to his knee, which squished and squeaked against the stone. He heard Radia do the same behind him, a little slower.

"Please rise," Ovelia said in a low voice. "Please."

Ramza rose unsteadily, blinking the sleep from his eyes. "Apologies, your Highness," he said. "I-"

"Really, Ramza," she said. "We're to be traveling together for many days to come. If you fall to your knees every time you see me-"

"You'll look a lot like some girls I used to know," mumbled Radia.

There was a moment of stunned silence. Ovelia's eyes were wide: Ramza felt a flush of embarrassment rising in his own cheeks, and looking over his shoulder, he could see Radia looking similarly horrified.

Ovelia snorted.

It was an awkward, muffled, undignified sound, and she put both hands against her mouth and tried her damndest not to laugh, and the sight was somehow funny enough on its own that Ramza felt a laugh rising unbidden in his own throat and struggled not to let it loose through pressed lips, and Radia gave a sort of choked gasping giggle, and then the three of them were running down the hall, Radia and Ramza squeaking and dripping as they went, and Ovelia shoved open her door and waved them inside, snickering as she did so, and as the door closed behind them she lost it entirely, cackling with laughter, and the sound was undeniably infectious. It turned this sober, serious-faced woman into something else entirely, someone young and bold as Alma, and the music of her voice was just as prevalent in her laugh, so Ramza was guffawing and Radia was howling.

"Oh, Saint," Ovelia sighed, wiping tears from her eyes and settling back the larger of the room's two beds. "They might have heard us!"

"I'm sorry," Radia mumbled. "I don't know-"

"Please," Ovelia scoffed, waving one hand dismissively. "It was _funny_." The way she said it, it sounded like an explanation unto itself. "I didn't think I would laugh like that again, after the others..."

She trailed off, and the mask slipped into place again—the composed, reserved, resigned princess. But it was a mask, and Ramza could see the woman beneath it now, trying not to show any sign of pain.

"Forgive me if I assume too much, your Highness," Ramza said. "But what were you doing in the hall?"

Ovelia considered for a moment. "Trying to figure out if I should announce my own wishes," Ovelia said.

"Why?" Radia asked. "You're the Princess. What you say, goes."

Ovelia smiled a little. "You don't know much about the way of court, do you?" she said. Radia shrugged, and Ovelia laughed. "You're funny," she said.

"Are you making fun of me?" Radia asked.

"And what if I was?" Ovelia countered. "I'm the Princess. What I say, goes." She giggled.

"I still don't understand," Radia said.

Ovelia inclined her head slightly, and was silent for a moment. "Agrias has been a faithful companion in trying times," she said. "And she deserves my trust and respect. If she feels it is wiser to brave the storm, I trust her judgment."

"But do you agree with it, your Highness?" Ramza asked.

Ovelia hesitated, then shook her head. "It would be best to wait until the storm has passed," she said. "So we all may reach our destination-"

Footsteps in the hall, coming towards their door, and Ovelia's eyes flashed wide and Ramza felt an answering kind of panic, because no matter who it was coming to the room they would certainly have something to say if they found the Princess alone with two mercenaries.

"Kneel!" Ovelia hissed, and Ramza knelt at once and after a long moment Radia followed suit, and Ovelia raised her voice, "Are you daft?" she shrieked. "This Monastery predates the Fall! It was said to have religious signifcance to the Ydorans themselves, and you would dare sully it with mud and rainwater? You inconsiderate-"

"Your Highness?" came Agrias' voice through the door, with a comical note of confusion souring her usual stern authority.

"A moment, captain!" Ovelia exclaimed, with a theatrical gesture. "I am reprimanding these inconsiderate knaves-"

"Reprimanding...your Highness!" The door swung open and Agrias burst inside, her hand on the hilt of her sword. She glared at Radia and Ramza, then raised concerned eyes to Ovelia. "You should not be alone with these mercenaries, your Highness."

"They are of my guard!" Ovelia said. "I shall reprimand them as I please!"

"I..." Again, that baffled note in Agrias' voice. "Of course, your Highness."

"Good," Ovelia said. "When do we leave?" As though to punctuate her words, a crack of thunder filled the echoing corridors of the monastery.

Agrias looked up at the ceiling of the small room, then back down to the Princess. "I believe it would be safest to wait until the storm has settled."

Ovelia nodded. "I trust your judgment absolutely, captain." She turned her imperious gaze upon Ramza and Radia. "You are dismissed," she said, and so cold was her voice that it was almost difficult to notice the smile tugging at her lips.

Ramza and Radia nodded, rose with their heads still bowed, and left the room, marching back to their own. They stripped off wet armor and clothes. By this point, there was little need for modesty between them—the necessities of the field had ensured they spent plenty of time together in various states of undress—but Ramza made a point to keep his gaze as the wall while she changed. He vaguely wondered if she extended him the same courtesy, and as always wasn't sure if he would be grateful, disappointed, or both if she did.

"She's different," Radia said.

"She is," Ramza said. "A little like Alma."

Radia snorted. "Nothing like Alma."

Ramza glanced over his shoulder and caught the hint of pale skin and the slight swell of her breasts. He looked away again at once. "What do you mean?"

"All that business about..." Radia sighed. "What was that?"

Ramza pulled on a fair of comfortable trousers and sat on the bed, still looking at the wall. "The rules of court," Ramza said.

"Right," Radia said. "But what's that mean?"

"It's complicated," Ramza said.

"Too complicated for a lowborn mercenary like me?" Radia assumed a mocking highborn accent.

"You know that's not what I-"

"Oh, Saint's sake, turn around!" Radia exploded.

Ramza risked a quick look and saw that Radia tightening the cord on a loose red tunic. He turned to face her. "That's not what I meant," he said.

"So what did you mean?" she asked

"I don't know," Ramza said. "I...I never really understood it myself. I didn't have to. I'm..." He looked at his bare feet, wiggling his toes as they tingled with relief at being freed from the damp boots. "My brothers didn't feel the need to teach me much. I don't think they planned for me to...to do much, at court."

Radia nodded. "What's that mean, though?"

"The...politics of it, I guess," Ramza said. "The games and the etiquette. The little ways you can...can put someone down, or honor them, or both."

"How's that work?" Radia asked.

"I'm not sure," Ramza said, and tried to think of some example, remembering back to Alma's fervent complaints on one holiday or another (and trying not to remember the other faces that had been in the room, Reis and Beowulf and Teta and Del-)

"Let's say you're throwing a dinner," Ramza said, a hair too quickly. "And...a duchess is visiting, so she...she should be seated at the head of the table. Place of honor. But you're...feuding with the duchess, and...and your best friend, who's a baroness, is there, and you...you put her in front of the duchess?" Even as Ramza said it, it sounded boring and pointless. What would any of that accomplish? He had to stifle a yawn just to get through the sentence.

"That sounds stupid," Radia said, and she made no effort to stifle her yawn, her eyes fluttering as she raised a hand to her mouth.

"It...is stupid," Ramza agreed, yawning in turn, and laid back against his bed. "But it...matters, I guess."

"Stupid," Radia mumbled, and Ramza felt the weight of darkness crushing down his eyelids, his dreams rising up to meet him.

"You said she was different from Alma," Ramza croaked, fighting against the wave of exhaustion.

"Huh?" Radia groaned, her voice thick with sleep.

"You...you said..." Ramza trailed off in a yawn, and felt himself drifting off into the dark.

He almost didn't hear Radia's drowsy mumble: "...Alma..doesn't care...but Ovelia..."

But Ovelia cared. Enough to hold her tongue, and let Agrias choose for them.

It seemed no time at all had passed when the door banged open, jerking Ramza from sleep. Across from him, Radia rose groggily from her bed, wiping at her eyes. Gaffgarion stood in the doorway, one hand on the handle, the other on his hilt. He was in his full strange mesh of plate, mail, and leather, and his mustache bristled above his lip. The steady reverberation of rain against the stone ceiling could still be heard.

"Up, you louts!" he barked.

Ramza and Radia exchanged glances, then rolled away from him without a word.

"I said up!" Gaffgarion repeated.

"We'll listen when _you've_ done a watch," grunted Radia.

"How do you know I haven't?" Gaffgarion asked.

"My hair's still damp," Radia said.

" _My_ hair's still damp," Ramza added, grabbing for a pillow and wrapping it around his head.

There was the sound of heavy footsteps in the hallway, walking away. At once Gaffgarion relaxed and allowed a look of exasperation to cross his face. He sighed. "We're preparing to move."

Ramza dropped the pillow and raised his head. "You mean-"

"I mean," Gaffgarion affirmed, nodding. "We're heading to Lesalia."

Ramza sat up. Radia did the same across from him. "It can't still be morning," Radia said.

"Evening, actually," Gaffgarion said. "You slept late."

It didn't feel like it. Ramza still felt exhausted, and parts of him were chafed from the mingling of leather, cloth, and rain.

"You want to travel at night?" Ramza asked.

"A command from Captain Cunt," growled Gaffgarion, rolling his eyes.

"Dad," Radia said warningly.

Gaffgarion raised his hands in mock surrender and continued, "She _insists_ we've lost too much time, and is laboring under the delusion that moving under cover of night will somehow be safer." He shook his head. "I tried to convince her otherwise, but the woman is deaf to reason."

"Reason being whatever you think is best," Radia said.

"Haven't been wrong so far," Gaffgarion said, shrugging. "Dawdle as long as you like. I'd rather look a fool than have to walk through this."

Gaffgarion left the room. Radia and Ramza exchanged glances. "Is he wrong?" Ramza asked.

"Probably not," admitted Radia. "She's a Princess. Moving under cover of darkness doesn't really keep her safe. I figure the more official we are, the better."

Ramza nodded. He and Radia gathered their gear, packed their bags, and moved slowly towards into the hall. There was no sight of anyone else, and no noise from any of the neighboring rooms, so the two of them made their way up to the chapel. There they found Agrias, Lavian, Alicia, Simon, and Gaffgarion waiting by the door, each shouldering a large bag with a few more piled by the door. Ovelia was bowed in prayer by the altar at the front of the room.

"Soldiers!" Agrias scowled as they walked into the room, though she kept her voice low. "Insolent, unrepentant, and slothful besides! What are the Hokuten coming to?"

Before Ramza could start to apologize, Gaffgarion spoke. "Begging your pardon, milady, but we are not knights of the Hokuten-"

"Nor a knight of any description, Geoffrey Gaffgarion!" Agrias spat.

Gaffgarion chortled. "Quite right," he said. "I would not want to sully my name with such a meaningless title."

"You dare-!"

"You are in a House of God," Simon breathed, in his reedy, creaking voice. "Assembled to protect the Princess of Ivalice. Please be civil."

"I..." Agrias inclined her head guiltily. "Yes, Father."

"I do not believe I ever spoke an uncivil word," Gaffgarion said mildly.

Again, the priest's eyes glinted from their wrinkled folds. "Civil words in a civil tone can hold a most uncivil intent."

Gaffgarion hesitated, then nodded slightly, not quite meeting the priest's eyes.

Ovelia rose from her place at the front of the room, and turned back to them, still wearing that oddly second-hand dress. She moved to thew, slow but purposeful.

"You have finished your prayers?" the priest asked.

"I have," she said. "Father, thank you for-" Her voice caught. She took a steadying breath. "Thank you." She said.

The priest smiled sadly. "Go with God, your Highness," Simon said, bowing his bald head before the princess.

"You too, Simon," she said, taking him by the hands and beaming up into his bearded face.

The doors to the chapel burst open. Katherine stumbled in, leaving pinkish puddles in her wake. Behind her, wind howled and rain pattered, and Ramza thought he could make out the dim metallic _clangs_ of sword against sword.

"My lady!" Katherine gasped. "The Nanten-"

An arrow flew out of the dark, and buried itself in the back of her neck in a spurt of blood. Katherine took one faltering step, fell to her knees clawing at the arrow, then pitched down against the stone.

At that, the scene burst into a frenzied chaos, as everyone unsheathed weapons and moved in different directions. Agrias grabbed Ovelia and whirled about, shielding the princess with her armored back. Lavian cried out and fell to Katherine's side, but Alicia grabbed her by the shoulder and jerked her to her feet, jabbing out with her scepter as she did so. Its jeweled tip flickered, and then a gout of fire rolled out into the dark, hissing with steam as raindrops met the cloud of flame. She rushed outside, dragging Lavian after her. Ramza and Radia stepped away from the door, eyes searching the darkness without for any sign of their enemies, hunching low in case of fresh arrows. A moment later, and there was a terrific _whoosh_ of rushing air, like the beating of wings. The sounds of fighting and even the steady pattering of rain seemed suddenly muffled.

"Nanten!?" croaked Gaffgarion. "What kind of fools..." He shook his head, his calm restored at once. His sword was out, and Ramza hadn't even seen him draw it. He turned back to Agrias. "Captain, we can't let them inside."

Agrias gave him a wary glance over one shoulder. "Father!" she called. "Is this the only door?"

"The only one they can use," Simon said. "The rear is locked, and sealed by magic."

"Then take her to her room," Agrias said, drawing her own sword. It shone in a way that Ramza remembered—that heavy mirage shimmer, like the blades of Wiegraf and Zalbaag. "We will clear the way."

"Agrias-" Ovelia began.

"Do not worry, my lady," Agrias said. "These rabble are no match for a Lioness." She gestured to Simon, who nodded and led the princess gently down the hall by her shoulders. Agrias looked to Gaffgarion, Ramza, and Radia. "With me!"

Gaffgarion inclined his head, and followed after her. Radia and Ramza hesitated. "Dad," Radia called. "Shouldn't we leave a guard, or-"

"There's just the one door," Gaffgarion said, not breaking stride or looking back. "And we have our orders."

Radia gave a weak sort of shrug and stepped quickly after him. Ramza took a deep breath to calm the beating of the heart and the pounding of the blood in his veins, then brought up the rear. He looked down at the fallen woman as he passed her, the blood staining her blonde ringlets as it dribbled from the wound in her neck. Then he was past her, and out into the rain.

The sky was almost black, but from the dim glow that remained on the horizon and the faded pool of light that spilled out from the doors behind them, Ramza could make out the shape of several knights. Some were lean, some burly, some scarred, some bearded. But every man and woman in their ranks wore the red cloak on their shoulders. Ramza did not have to see their backs to know the black lion that fluttered there. The sign of Goltanna's Nanten.

A man and a woman stood close to the door, each with blades drawn. At their feet was Ysabel's auburn-haired corpse. Alicia and Lavian stood opposite them, Alicia's scepter extended like a fencing foil, Lavian standing ramrod straight with her thumb tracing some of the glowing runes of her shepherd's crook. A dome of flickering force seemed to extend out from the shepherd's crook and up around them, so the rain slid down and pooled at its fringes. Several arrows hung within the dome, bound their by lines of white force.

Agrias, Radia, Ramza, and Gaffgarion fanned out to cover any other approaches to the door as the rain pattered down upon the dome. Ramza followed the paths of the arrows, searching for the archers. The dome hummed with a deep vibration Ramza could feel in the stones beneath his feet. High-level magic, this: in all his travels, Ramza wasn't sure he'd ever worked with mages of this caliber.

No time to worry about the dead knights. No time to worry about anything but the battle in front of him. He sheathed his sword and pulled the bow from his shoulder, nocking an arrow.

"There's no need for this," said the woman in the Nanten cloak. "We're here for the Princess. You all can live."

"As if Goltanna would suffer witnesses to his crime," sneered Agrias.

"Crime?" said the man. "What crime can the rightful king of Ivalice commit in securing his realm against plots of treason and assassination?"

"I think the Queen might take umbrage," Gaffgarion said dryly.

"We're not here to talk politics," said the woman. "Whatever magic tricks you have, you're outnumbered. Stand aside."

Agrias studied the woman, then shot a sidelong glance at Agrias and Lavian. She turned back to the man and woman in front of her and nodded slowly. "Alright," she said. "The shield is coming down."

Ramza felt the magic gathering in Lavian, flickering along her staff. A wave of shimmering force flowed out from the crook and into the dome, which burst outwards in one thunderous _boom_ , flinging the arrows back the way they'd come, knocking the man and woman closest to them off their feet, and nearly deafening Ramza. Agrias lunged forwards, and slammed her blade into the earth between the man and the woman: white fire exploded upwards into the sky.

Ramza rolled to one side as an arrow flew from the dark and skidded off the stone where he'd been standing. He loosed his own arrow into the night.

Another battle, fought in service to some distant Hokuten master. Nothing had really changed, except the faces.


	34. Chapter 33: Blades in the Dark

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 **Chapter 33: Blades in the Dark**

"The rear door," Ovelia said, as she and Simon moved as quickly down the narrow hall as the old man could hobble. "You're sure it's no danger?"

Simon shook his head. "Locked and sealed with magic," Simon said. "It cannot be opened, save from the inside."

"A high-level mage-" Ovelia began.

"Perhaps," Simon admitted. "But I imagine we would know if there were a high-level mage in their midst."

"Unless..." Ovelia trailed off, frowning. There were so many unlesses. Unless they had a mage and had scouted the place, intending for this mage to act as an assassin. Unless they had kept the mage at the front door, in the hopes of blasting away what remained of her guard and entering by that ordinary entrance. Unless unless unless.

That was what was bothering her, that was what kept her mind turning. That, and guilt.

It wasn't right. _Nothing_ was right. Not if the Nanten were here.

They pushed open the door to Ovelia's room. Ovelia helped the priest to sit at the edge of the bed, even as he protested. She leaned back against the wall and again heard the whistling of the arrow as it flew, the meaty _thnnk_ of it piercing Katherine's flesh.

"She's dead," Ovelia said.

Simon gave a shaky nod. "She is."

Katherine and Ysabel were young woman from common stock, barely more than Lionsguard cadets, but they had been sweet and friendly and so much less formal than Agrias. They had allowed her to relax a little. Katherine had even reminded her of Alma—both a little fiery and irreverent.

And now...

That was the first time Ovelia had seen someone die. Katherine, bleeding onto the stones of the chapel. The smell of it was still with her. The wet stink of her blood mingling with the crisp rain. The sodden sound her body had made as it hit the stones.

"Do you think...do you think Ysabel..." Ovelia couldn't bring herself to speak the word.

Simon hesitated. "It...seems likely, your Highness."

Both women dead. More loss she didn't understand. Why were the Nanten here?

Ovelia was no fool. There was no great love anywhere across Ivalice. She had learned that lesson shortly after Ondoria had adopted her to make her his heir. She had learned that by listening to Louveria, golden and gorgeous and imperious, as she'd filled the halls of the Lion's Den with her courtiers and soldiers and kept Ovelia isolated to one wing of the Den. Sole heir to the throne, and still Louveria had held such power over her, and no one—not even her uncle and adoptive father, Ondoria—had been willing to stand at her side.

And that had been before Orinus was born. Before there'd been no need for a princess complicating the line of succession. Before Ovelia had been banished from the Den, and consigned to one meek monastery after another as a way of currying favor with the Church and keeping her away from even the slightest semblance of power. She was suffered to live only as a bargaining chip for the interests of Louveria and her weak-willed husband.

No one complained. Why would they? None took Ovelia's side, and besides, she was more useful to them this way. Louveria made sure that little news from the capital or the courts made its way to her, but Ovelia was smart enough to realize that the prospect of marriage into the royal family through Ovelia pacified some nobles who might be more aggressive. She didn't like the idea of being married off against her will, but she had always taken some comfort in the notion that her very existence helped keep the peace in Ivalice. It made the lonely hours easier to bear—the ever-changing faces of her guards, and the coldness of the women around her (and how cold they were, each too adept at politics to think befriending her could lead to anything but trouble with their powerful queen). She could bear it, if it kept the peace. If it kept people from dying.

But it hadn't. Katherine was dead. Ysabel might die too, if she wasn't dead already. Even Agrias-

No. Agrias would survive. Alicia would survive. Lavian would survive. It would take an army to fell them, right? They were strong. They were...they...

Ovelia felt tears stinging in her eyes. She started pacing, trying to shake her fears and restless anxieties off with movement.

This didn't make sense. Why would Goltanna attack like this? Why kill her guards?

So many questions. Like Ramza.

She tried to shake that thought, but it remained stubbornly lodged in her head. She was reasonably confident she had a picture of him—one of Alma's sketches, the one that showed some picnic memory, her dead friends Teta and Delita in the center, her brothers and her father off to one side, and Ramza Beoulve standing opposite. He was in profile, so it was hard to tell, but the resemblance between the boy in the picture and the ever-bowing mercenary was hard to mistake. Even if she hadn't had the picture, however, she imagined she might have spotted the resemblance: Alma had mentioned her brother, and meeting a man with the name Ramza and with hair and eyes almost precisely the same color as Alma's was hardly going to go unnoticed.

So why was a Beoulve traveling under a fake name? Why was he serving as a mercenary? Alma said her brother was alive, but she didn't know where. Was he working for the Hokuten? Not just hired by them, but one of their agents? It wasn't impossible, was it? And even Alma could be ignorant, but what would be the point?

Like the Nanten. Was this a kidnapping attempt, or an assassination? Why would Goltanna try either? What did he stand to gain?

Questions chasing round and round, and no answers in sight. Trying to think of answers was better than thinking of Katherine, though. Better than-

Footsteps in the hallways, squishing and sodden, squelching with dampness. Simon looked at the door, frowning. They seemed to be moving too quickly, didn't they? And there was an odd whisking clattering, like doors being thrown open and-

Her door rattled in its frame. A strange voice shouted, "She's in here!"

Lightning thrilled up Ovelia's spine. Simon rose with a start from her bed. "Behind me, your Highness!" he shouted, stepping in front of her and raising his fists. His robe hung limp upon his skeletal frame.

Something clicked in the lock. A key? But how-

The door burst open, and two men stepped inside. They were soaked through, drizzling and dripping from the corners of their sleek, slimy clothes. Perhaps Ovelia might have made out more of their features, but she was rather distracted by the short blades they clutched in their wet hands.

"Stay back, you cretins!" wheezed Simon. "You stand in the presence-"

"Of the so-called princess," grunted the man standing a little farther back. "We know."

"Out of the way, old man," said the man in front. His blue eyes glittered beneath his damp blonde hair.

Simon straightened himself out a little. When he spoke, the hoarseness of his years had faded a little from his voice: she could almost here the Inquisitor he'd been, before he'd ever come to the Monastery with its daunting library. "You stand on holy ground," he hissed. "A place considered sacred by the Glabados Church, and the Ydorans before them. You stand before the Princess Ovelia Atkascha, who carries the blood of your king. I do not know-"

Whatever else he was going to say was lost as the blonde man lunged forwards, with his looming dark-haired companion just a step behind. Simon dodged backwards, out of the reach of the smaller blonde man, but the dark-haired man stepped around and hammered the hilt of his short sword into the back of Simon's bald head. Simon crumbled at once.

"No!" Ovelia roared, and found herself lunging in turn. The two men turned with blades in hands, and Ovelia remembered the lessons she'd learned from Simon and from Alma, and flung out her hands. The ring on right hand gleamed as she drew magic from it, and a moment later a column of pearly translucent light exploded up around her. She gasped, feeling a hollow pit of exhaustion opening somewhere in her stomach, then gritted her teeth and force the light wider, so it surrounded both her and Simon.

"The hell?" growled the dark-haired man. "Thought she didn't know magic."

"She's not supposed to," hissed the blonde man.

It was true: Ovelia had never had the tutors or teachers that trained other noble girls in the arts of defensive magic, protection against betrayal, kidnapping, and assassination. But she had spent her time among monasteries, and the Glabados Church had inherited many of the Ydorans' greatest arts. The ring on her finger had been a gift from Simon on her sixteenth birthday—an old tool designed for idle conjurations and little else, something he'd used to train Templar cadets and Inquisitorial candidates.

The blonde man prodded at her field with the tip of his sword, and the pearly light bubbled inwards. It felt like something was pressing hard on Ovelia's chest, making it hard to breathe.

"We can break it," the blonde man said confidently, and the dark-haired man nodded and added his own sword, and the light was bubbling, warping, tearing, and tears of pain and effort were stinging in Ovelia's eyes and she fel to her knees, her ears filled with the sound of Simon's broken gasps, staring at the two men in their strange, slimy clothes. This close, she could see the clothes were not so much slimy as rubbery, cut all in one piece, sleek and gleaming with the water that sluiced off of them, and their hair was still wet, and the rear door was sealed and she didn't think the front had been lost so how had they gotten in?

Whether it was lack of air or adrenaline or simply the fact that she had been gnawing at the problem since these Nanten soldiers had come calling and killing, the answer came to her in a lightning flash of clarity.

Both doors still stood, but these men had not entered through the doors. They had come from beneath, because this marvelous Monastery relied on the flow of the creek for its plumbing systems, and these men had come in through the creek, swimming beneath the Monastery proper, and why would Nanten soldiers know the structure of the building well enough to see that obvious flaw? Why would Nanten soldiers have a key to her room? Why would Nanten soldiers be surprised to see a Princess with magical training?

They wouldn't, of course. But royal soldiers would. Royal soldiers had scouted the Monastery to guarantee the security of their Princess. Royal policy had kept Ovelia from any academy or magical training.

These men weren't Nanten. They were royals.

Blood spattered against her field. The blonde man collapsed in front of her, the weight of his body too much for her magic to bear: the field gave way with a snapping Ovelia could feel in her mind, and the blonde corpse slumped at her feet, gurgling as birght spots flashed across Ovelia's vision and her bowels trembled.

"Who the hell-" started the dark-haired man, and then the sword flashed again and cut across his throat, and the dark-haired man slunk to the ground, clutching at the bloody gash in his throat, gasping until the sword slashed once more and severed his head from his shoulders.

The headless body hit the ground chest-first. The blonde man stopped gurgling as the dark-haired head bounced away across the loom, leaving bloody puddles in its wake.

Ovelia, breathless and dizzy, looked to the man holding the sword. In the dim light of the wall runes, she saw a man with clay-red hair and a tan complexion. He had had high cheekbones, though the left cheek was mottled by burn scars. Then the dark eyes speared her.

"Who-" she started weakly.

"A friend," said the man with the burned cheek.

But that didn't make sense. These were royal assassins, and assassins of a different stripe lurked outside, wearing Nanten cloaks. This man was not of her guard, and not of the assassins, and not of the men pretending to be Nanten. Who the hell was he?

A friend, he said, and he had killed her assassins. She could smell the salty tang and stomach-punching shitty reek of the man at her feet, as the blood beneath him pooled and pushed out towards Simon. A friend, but there were only two doors into this sanctum, so had he gotten in?

"A friend," she repeated.

He nodded. He held up one hand to forestall her, and with the other sheathed his gold-washed blade. Then he held up his sword hand, too.

"Circumstances conspire to bring you harm, Princess," he said. "I have no intention of doing so. But we must move quickly."

Ovelia nodded, and fell to one knee, trying not to look at the broken body lying next to the priest, studying the bruised lump on Simon's head. "Let us tend to Simon and gather my guard-"

"There is no time, your Highness."

Ovelia stared down at the old man, his mouth working, his eyelids fluttering. She nodded, without looking at the man above her. She glanced at the ring on her finger.

In one swift moved she lifted her hands and willed. A wall of pearly light formed, then pushed outwards, slamming towards the man with the burnt-cheek. He was quick: his sword flew free of its sheathe in one lightning-quick motion, tore through her makeshift wall like tissue paper, and she felt something in her tear as well, wrenching a gasp from her as her heart lurched. But it knocked him off-balance, and as he tumbled backwards Ovelia hiked up her skirt and ran, her lungs aching, her head spinning. She was already wearing her traveling boots, and she leapt over his flailing legs and out into the hall, racing through the stonework hallway to the chapel again.

A friend? A friend who entered a guarded Monastery and planned to pluck her from her protectors? Ovelia might not fully understand her situation, but she knew she could not trust this man.

"No you don't!" shouted a voice behind her, too close already (how? She'd felled him, she was sure of it!) and instead of answering Ovelia slipped her traveling cloak from her shoulders and tossed it backwards. She heard it hit him, the cloth _thmphing_ across his face and muffling his curses, and Ovelia raised her voice and screamed, "AGRIAS! SOMEONE! HELP!"

Over and over as she ran, racing for the main doors, and she burst into the chapel and heard the steady drizzle of rain and still she was screaming-

Something hit her in between the shoulder blades, and when she tumbled, something else hammered into the back of her knees. She hit the ground hard, crying out at the jarring reverberating pain reaching out from palms, knees, and elbows, and scrambled to her feet. A moment later, and a hand knotted itself in her hair, pulled her upright as her scalp burned. She had one glimpse of dark eyes, bright with anger and something else, something like amusement, something like admiration.

"Clever," he said, and then his fist jammed into her throat and Ovelia's dizzy find faded into gasping darkness.


	35. Chapter 34: Seeds of Distrust

(Thanks for reading so far, everyone! We're back to updates every two weeks for a bit while I get my ducks in a row. if you're enjoying the story and want more content (including essays, short stories, and whole original novels) please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 34: Seeds of Distrust**

 _...whichever version of history you accept, most historians agree on the essential details of the attack on Orbonne Monastery. The mercenaries hired to kill the Princess' guards left no record as to how contracted them, but Goltanna would hardly have handed them Nanten cloaks and added their names to Nanten rosters in an attempt to discredit himself. Unbeknownst to these poor mercenaries, their sole purpose was to serve as set dressing so the Crown could plausibly execute Goltanna as a traitor for the assassination of Ovelia. Two Hokuten assassins would do the deed, slipping in through the plumbing and waterworks beneath the Monastery while the Princess' guard was distracted. Thus would Goltanna be disgraced before both Lionsguard and Glabados Church, and the unchallenged ascendancy of Larg and his sister guaranteed. Were it not for one man, until that moment lost to history, the White Lion would have reigned victorious before the war had even begun._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The War of the Lions"_

Something was wrong. No, scratch that: _many_ things were wrong. Ramza could sense that even through the dispassionate clarity that came to him in the thick of battle, the razor calm that let him focus and fight, slice his sword and barely wince to see the pain and fear on his enemy's face.

But of course, this battle was part of the problem. It was too easy.

The soldiers were shoddy, uncoordinated, their plans and forms easily broken. No sooner had those two Nanten knights fallen in a gout of white flame then arrows had sprayed from the dark, each aimed for random targets. Shoddy again. Even in the confusion they should have focused on targets of value—Lavia, Alicia, and Agrias, all of whom they had in their sights, all of whom had shown dangerous magical abilities. Ramza had known that much when he'd been a cadet traveling with Argus.

And the other soldiers that came from the dark, with axes and swords and spears? The woman who rose screaming to charge at Agrias, her hair still aflame? They, too, were scattered and wild, as though they didn't know how to work together.

Ramza had grown up around the Hokuten, and even before the escalating tensions of the past few years there had always been a fierce rivalry between the two great knightly orders. He'd always heard the Nanten were inferior—limp-wristed sissies who couldn't take a punch or bivouac in the open field, always hiding behind walls and mountains and their mother's skirts, whose lovers longed to see a Hokuten man so they could finally know a night's real pleasure.

But even if Ramza had believed these boasts and jests when he was a cadet—and naive as he he had been, even he hadn't been _that_ naive—he had fought beside Nanten units in the preceding years. He had seen first-hand that they did prefer rigid formations and dense fortification, that they preferred their armor and shields heavy...and that that it made them no less terrifying on the field. They were strong, and rigorous, and determined, and above all else they were well-organized, trusting each other to hold the line and watch each others' backs.

This disorganized mess of an attack? This motley assortment of weapons? These were not the fierce, unyielding Nanten he'd met. These were some of the shoddiest soldiers Ramza had seen.

Ramza kept rolling and firing, following the paths of the arrows from the night, zig-zagging so none could get a bead on him. Alicia raised her scepter and shot a bright light into the sky, shedding radiance across the field: Ramza spied one archer, and loosed an arrow at him. The man cried out as the arrow found his shoulder, and then his cries went silent as the second arrow found his throat.

Ramza turned away, eyeing the chaos of the fight beneath Alicia's light. The grounds around the temple were thick with Nanten, half of whom seemed dead or dying: Agrias was dueling with the woman, and Radia and Gaffgarion seemed to have cut down one foes apiece already and were moving towards others. Surrounded, outnumbered, and hemmed in, and their assailants had been broken already.

Two more archers stood on the hills, but one was moving in an awkward slouch as though he'd already been injured, and the other fired again and again at Lavia. Each arrow that drew near her slowed, then clattered to the ground. Lavian seemed a little more slumped with each arrow, until she was clinging to her staff as though it were the only thing keeping her upright.

Ramza loosed an arrow at her assailant, who rolled to one side. Ramza darted forwards and started snatching up the fallen arrows, feathering the hillside with the archer's own shafts. This one archer seemed a mite craftier than his fellows, always moving, answering Ramza's assault with arrows of his own, so the two men were rolling and firing as their arrows hissed their way through the rain.

Radia appeared around at the archer's back, and sank her sword into his side. He tumbled down the hill.

Too easy to thwart these Nanten, too easy by far, but perhaps these men were fresh soldiers, new recruits easily riled by the escalating tensions of the rivalry betweeen Goltanna and Larg, except why would fresh recruits forego main roads and taking this winding, well-kept path to a forlorn monastery home only to a powerless Princess? Too much by far for any drunken escapade or act of youthful impetuousness. But what did that leave? Official orders? Who would give them, and why?

Another man lunged out of the dark, spear in hand, thrusting at Ramza. Ramza dropped his bow and rolled away. When Ramza rose to his feet, his sword was in his hand, parrying and slashing as the rain cascaded down upon them. Ramza lunged forwards, jerked and shifted, pinning the spear beneath his armpit at the point where the head met the shaft. Another quick twist, and the man clutching the spear splayed onto the marble walkway.

"Yield!" Ramza shouted, pointing his sword at the man's throat. In the same motion, he dropped the spear to one side and kicked it backwards, so it clattered away behind him.

The disarmed man stared up at Ramza, his face cast in shadow by the light burning above. Then Gaffgarion appeared as though by magic, and shoved his sword into the man's stomach. The man gasped, twisted, clutched at the blade so his fingers bled, and then went still.

"What are you doing?" Ramza demanded, glaring at Gaffgarion.

"There are six of us, boy!" Gaffgarion shouted. "Do you intend to take captives?"

"He could have told us-"

The clanging of blades rang through their argument. Scowling, Ramza grabbed for his bow and turned away from Gaffgarion, turning to look for any new enemy. But the battle had gone even more in their favor—Ramza saw no sign of any movement. Radia and Agrias stood over different bodies: Lavian was bent low, clinging to her staff, with Alicia moving towards her.

"SOMEONE ANYONE AGRIAS LAVIAN SOMEONE HELP HE'S COMING-"

Ovelia's frantic scream cut through the rain, the pounding of blood in Ramza's ears, drowned the sound of his exhausted gasps.

"Ovelia!" Agrias cried, and turned on her heel with the blood still sluicing off her sword, dashing through the chapel doors. Ramza almost followed, but some instinct stopped him, pulled him away from the doors and set him off at a run around the far side of the chapel, plunging along its round exterior, racing as fast as his pumping legs could carry him, and his mind was working too, those little wrongs he'd noticed even in the thick of the fighting slowly adding up to a greater whole. Because what if these other things had been a distraction? What if-

He rounded the side of the building as a flash of lightning illuminated the scene. In that moment, it felt as though the lightning had struck his brain: he reeled, absorbing everything, understanding nothing.

Across the way, he saw the somber profile of a young man. He had just tossed the Princess Ovelia's slumped, unconscious body onto the back of chocobo whose bright gold feathers seemed iridescent even through the rain. His face was in profile, his nose more crooked than it had been when Ramza had last seen him, and his hair longer and stringier. His body seemed broader and more powerful, too. But perhaps most markedly of all—even at this distance, even in profile, Ramza could see the dispassionate focus in those dark eyes.

In Delita's eyes.

"Delita!" he howled, and his words were swallowed up by an almighty crack of thunder that made it sound as though something in the sky had shattered. The force of it shook Ramza's bones as he started to run, hurtling towards the dim and distant figure as it slipped atop the chocobo and set the bird in motion. First at a slow trot then at a brisk run, and Ramza was sprinting for all he was worth and feeling the most peculiar deja vu. He'd done this before, hadn't he? Chasing a chocobo that held a Heiral, with no hope of catching up.

"Delita!" he shouted again. But if Delita heard, he didn't slow.

"No!" Agrias cried, bursting out of the door as Ramza drew near. She stared after her Princess in horror, then began to run once more, her scaled armor clinking with every pounding step. Ramza raced besides her.

Gaffgarion appeared along the far side of the monastery with Radia at his side. "What's happening?" he demanded.

Ramza didn't answer. Neither did Agrias. They kept racing, chasing after the lone figure in the distance. Gaffgarion turned his head to follow, then gasped audibly. "Who the hell-?"

Ramza and Agrias sprinted past him as the chocobo disappeared over the hills, following the winding of the creek. Ramza felt a stitch in his side, but refused to slow. Delita was alive. Delita was-

"Oy!" Gaffgarion barked, grabbing for Ramza's arm. From the corner of Ramza's gaze, he saw that Gaffgarion had also reached out for Agrias. She whirled about, chopping with her blade, roaring, "Unhand me!"

Gaffgarion fell back with a cry, releasing both Ramza and Agrias. They turned as one, but now Radia was in front of him. "You can't catch him!" she shouted. "Not like this."

Ramza started to move again, with Agrias doing the same. Radia hotfooted back. "He's mounted!" she shouted. "You can't-"

"She has been taken!" Agrias bellowed, advancing on the red-headed woman with her sword in hand. "It is my charge to guard her, and I will not-"

"These are Nanten, right?" Radia said. "They're not going to-RAMZA!" She grappled with him as Ramza moved to step past her again, shoved him back. "What are you doing?"

"Delita!" Ramza cried without thinking thinking. "It was Delita!"

Radia's eyes widened. Besides the hissing of rain, there was silence in their midst. Agrias turned slowly to face him, her eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare. "You know him?" she said.

Ramza nodded dumbly. "But he's...I thought he was dead. Why would he..."

The shock of seeing Delita alive was slowly wearing off. Ramza was slowly becoming conscious again—conscious of the fire in his calves, ankles, chest, shoulders, the slow burning of desperate strain. He was conscious again of spots where armor had chafed against wet skin, conscious of the little scrapes and bruises from all his rolling and dodging. Conscious of\f what he was saying, and how it sounded. Some unknown mercenary knew the Princess' kidnapper, and admitted as much to the Captain of her Guard.

So he looked at Agrias, and said at once, "I don't know what he's doing," Ramza said. "But I have to find him. So do you."

Agrias' nostrils flared, and she nodded slowly. "A fair point," she said. "How?"

"That's easy," Radia said, turning to look at Agrias. "He's not going to run headlong into Gallione or Lesalia, and he's got to move fast. Hokuten can catch him anywhere else he goes. If he's with Goltanna, he'll head for Bethla Garrison."

Agrias stiffened. "We will never rescue her, if-"

"I know," Radia said. "But that's no easy road. He can't run over the mountains fast enough by himself, and he can't cut around Araguay . His chocobo won't help him much there. If we take our time and prepare, we can catch him before he crosses the Falls."

"Hold on!" Gaffgarion exclaimed. "This is madness."

Agrias turned her glaring eyes back to him. "You dare-"

"I dare, you wretched woman!" he spat. "You want to pursue a mounted man on foot while all we've got is a pack bird?"

"And what would you propose, coward?" Agrias sneered.

"Simple," Gaffgarion said. "If we leave tonight, we can be in Dorter by afternoon tomorrow. There's a Hokuten garrison there—probably with birds of their own."

"And the Hokuten have always been such friends to Ovelia," growled Agrias.

"I was _hired_ by the Hokuten," Gaffgarion snapped. "And I'm not going to let your _pride_ stop us from getting the help we need. We should head for the garrison."

"Do what you want," Ramza said. "I'm going after Delita."

Gaffgarion glared at Ramza. "I thought you'd learned by now, boy-"

"Learned what?" Ramza demanded. "He's alive, Gaffgarion."

" _If_ it's your friend!" Gaffgarion exclaimed. "How could you even tell-"

"He could tell," Radia said. "And I'm going, too."

Gaffgarion opened his mouth, then closed it. He glared between them, and shook his head. "Madness," he said again. "You can't catch him."

"I have to try," Ramza said. "With or without you." He looked at Agrias. "Either of you."

Agrias and Gaffgarion stared at him. After a moment, Agrias nodded slowly "The Princess has been taken. You believe he makes for the road north to Bethla from the Falls?" She looked at Radia.

"I do not know where else he could go," Radia said.

Agrias nodded, and looked back to Gaffgarion. "You honestly believe the Hokuten will aid us in our pursuit?"

Gaffgarion glanced at her. "I do."

"Then please take your pack chocobo and ride north," she said. "We will pursue on foot."

Gaffgarion considered, then nodded. "A wise plan, Captain," he said.

She turned at last to Ramza. "I can trust you to put the Princess above your friend?" she asked.

Ramza hesitated, uncertain what to say. "You can trust me to protect her, Captain," he said.

Agrias nodded curtly. "I cannot afford to turn away help. Gather your things and be ready to leave as soon as possible." She turned back to the Monastery, then stopped, and looked at Ramza over her shoulder. "If you betray the Princess, I will see you dead."

She entered the monastery. Ramza moved to follow, and Gaffgarion grabbed him and whirled him around, glaring between him and Radia.

"Again you waste yourself on fool quests!" Gaffgarion cried. "Such risk, and for what? For the chance to see a friend who might now be murdering scum? I thought I had at least broken that bad habit-"

By way of answer, Ramza slammed his shoulder into Gaffgarion's chest, knocking the older man back a step. Gaffgarion sputtered in rage as Ramza glowered at him. This was by no means the first fight they'd had—indeed, they'd had so many fights over so many issues, over captives and matters of pay, over what contracts to take and how to execute their duties. But the fact was that Ramza had no confidence in all those other fights. He didn't trust Gaffgarion, but he understood that this world-weary mercenary knew more of such matters than he did. So they made their compromises and concessions, and Ramza acquiesced or made his small rebellions, but all moved as Gaffgarion willed because Ramza didn't trust his own judgment, not after Zeakden.

But Delita Heiral was alive in the world, and Ramza would find him again or die trying, no matter who tried to stop him.

Gaffgarion glared back at him. After a moment, his green eyes softened. "Ramza," the other man said softly. "Are you proud of the things you've done?"

Ramza did not answer. He kept his eyes hard, so as not to betray the twist of guilt he felt against his ribs.

"Your friend has taken the Princess," Gaffgarion said. "We don't know who he's working for or what he intends to do with her. You're riding off with a woman who will kill him if she gets the chance. And your friend...Delita, right?" Gaffgarion's eyes were unbearably soft. "Think of all you've done, these past two years. Think of who you were, and who you are. What do you think he's done? Who do you think he is?"

Gaffgarion stared at Ramza. Ramza stared steadily back, hoping no sign of his new doubts showed in his eyes. Then Gaffgarion turned on his heel, and was off without a second look.

Ramza waited until he was out of sight, then turned to Radia. "Radia-" he started.

"Please," she scoffed, moving towards the door. "Like you wouldn't do the same for me."

Ramza didn't have time to say anything before she'd entered the Monastery again. Ramza hesitated, as the rain dripped down around him. Then he followed after.

Stairs led down into the dark—presumably to the forbidden library. Ramza went up instead, and found himself back in the chapel, entering from a well-concealed door behind the pulpit. Agrias and Alica were hastily sorting through the piled bags they'd assembled in preparation for their journey to Lesalia: Radia had moved to help them, speaking with Agrias in a low, anxious murmur. From down the hall, Simon came, propped up on Lavian's shoulder. A bloody bruise had formed upon the crown of his bald head, which Lavian was tending to with waves of light undulating from the tip of her shepherd's crook.

"The Princess...?" the priest croaked.

"We'll get her back, Simon," Agrias said, turning to face him.

The priest's glazed eyes couldn't seem to focus on her. "Have to," he muttered. "Have to."

Lavian looked away from the priest, down to Katherine's wet and bloody body. Agrias, Alicia, and Radia followed her gaze.

"They deserved better," Agrias whispered.

"We can't leave them like this," Lavian said.

Agrias hesitated, then nodded and looked to Simon. "Father, can you give them rites?"

The priest said nothing for a time. His vague eyes were fixed on the windows. Then he nodded very slowly. "What were...there signs?"

Agrias closed her eyes. "Aries and Scorpio," she whispered.

The priest nodded again. "Need...my room..."

"I'll take him," Ramza said, moving to the priest's side. He was glad for the chance at such simple work, to distract him from the restless irritation that mounted with every moment he wasn't off in pursuit of Delita. He draped the priest's arm around his shoulders and helped him back the way they'd come.

His mind was already itching terribly, puzzling over how Delita had survived, what he was doing here, what sins he might have committed and what evil he might intend for the Princess. He didn't want to believe his friend could be capable of anything too terrible, but Ramza had seen too much of the world these last two years, and he still remembered the fearsome violence that had possessed Delita as they'd ridden for Zeakden.

Best to keep moving, so he did not have time to think.

Ramza helped Simon limp to the little door which led to the priest's sparse stone-walled room—just a narrow cot, a low dresser, and a desk piled high with books. Ramza settled the priest upon his bed, though he did not allow him to lay down. His head was injured—Ramza had no intention of letting him slip into an unconsciousness from which he would not awaken.

"What do you need, Father?" Ramza asked.

The priest regarded him for a moment. His eyes were still glazed, but they seemed a little brighter than they had before, a little more alert.

"Ramza," the priest said.

"Yes, father?"

"Ramza...Beoulve."

Ramza froze as a cold shock thundered out from his heart and rolled through his veins. Simon nodded slowly. "You look like...your sister. Like...your father."

Ramza swallowed against the dryness of his throat and found the presence of mind to ask, "You knew my father?"

"The Heavenly Knight," Simon said. "Earned that name. Helped. Always helping." Simon chuckled, then winced and raised a tentative finger to the bruised goose-egg atop his head.

"Are you alright?"

"Alright," huffed Simon. "No. Attacked by those..." He panted and shook his head. "Ramza," he said. "You must..."

"What, father?"

Simon gestured vaguely around them. "The Ydorans...built to last. The stream...flows through. Those men...swam."

Ramza shook his head. "I don't understand."

Simon was quiet for a time. His breathing was a little slow, a little uneven, and he was still tenderly probing the lump upon his head.

"Someone...told them," Simon said. "How to...get in. Gave them...keys. Gave them...plans. Someone...royal."

Ramza blinked, opened his mouth, closed it. He didn't know what to say. Royal? What did the mean? A member of the royal family? Someone close to them? A member of the Lionsguard?

A member of the Lionesses?

Simon nodded at the fear and confusion in Ramza's eyes. "Who...can be trusted?" he asked. "I...don't know. But she...she needs..." The priest winced, his eyelids fluttering. Ramza moved to help him, and the priest weakly waved him away.

"She needs...justice. She needs...service." Simon's eyes were a little brighter now, though he swayed unsteadily where he sat. "You are...a Beoulve. Help her."

Ramza hesitated. He was filled with questions, filled with doubts and uncertainties. The attack outside, part of some royal plot? Where did Delita fit in? How had Delita survived? It was the same sick, weak feeling that had hung over him when Teta was taken, except now Delita was the kidnapper, and nothing made sense.

Ramza had never been much of a Beoulve. These days, he wasn't sure anyone had ever been, besides men like his father. Perhaps Simon could sense his hesitation. He steadied himself upon his bed, focused on Ramza once again. Ramza's skin prickled before the priest's steady gaze.

"If not for the sake of your name," Simon said, speaking slowly but firmly. "If not for the sake of your Princess. Then for the sake of your sister's friend."

The knife in Ramza's guts twisted. Echoes of Zeakden again: another of his sister's friends, taken far away, and Ramza knew where this road led, he knew the failure and the grief that waited at the end, and he felt his knees go weak at the thought of it, saw Teta tumbling down except this time it was Ovelia, and Delita stood above her with a bloodstained sword.

"I will try," Ramza said, and he could hear the fear in his voice.

Simon watched him for a time, then nodded. He instructed Ramza on where to look in his wardrobe, and after moving aside an ancient leather tome (with Simon's ringing, alarmed squeak of "careful, careful!" still echoing in his ears), found wooden markers stacked throughout neatly in one drawer, each a different Zodiac insignia. He helped the priest to his feet, and they made their way upstairs again. Radia and the Lionesses were standing outside in the pouring rain, each with a heavy bag upon their shoulders. Ysabel and Katherine's bloody corpses had place of honor amongst the myriad dead, all laid upon a heap of sodden wood.

"Can't we bury them?" Lavian was asking, staring at the dead girls with a pained look in her wide eyes.

"No time," Agrias said. "But we will get word to their families."

"Ysabel didn't have one," mumbled Lavian. "Dead in the War. And now..."

She trailed off as Ramza helped Simon outside. "There is a small plot not far from here" Simon said. "They will have markers. I promise you."

Lavian nodded, but said nothing. Alicia placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder.

"We have to leave," Agrias said. "Simon, can you-"

"If Alicia will be so good as to start the flame."

Alicia nodded, lowered her scepter to the sodden wood. The gem flared, sparked, and crackled: flames fought their way out onto the wood, warred against the rain, brighter, brighter, brighter, until the pyre was ablaze in earnest. They stood together in the rain, watching the fire consume the Nanten assailants and the valiant Lionesses alike.

"You deserved better," Agrias said. "You will be avenged."

She turned and marched off, following the winding path of the stream. Alicia gently pulled Lavian away from the fire, and Radia tossed Ramza his bag and then followed after. Ramza hesitated, watching the fire consume the dead, watching Simon as he mumbled to himself, lifting his wooden markers.

"I'll try," Ramza whispered, and trudged off into the storm.


	36. Chapter 35: The Inconvenient Princess

(And we're back to once-a-week for the next several weeeks! If you're enjoying the story and want to hear my musings on the chapters (or just want more content), please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 35: The Inconvenient Princess**

It took nearly three days hard riding before they reached Araguay. Ovelia was a dirty mess of aches, bruises, and scrapes: her dress was torn and ragged, and her pits and thighs were chafed where wet fabric had rubbed her skin raw. But in spite of her various miseries, she took a little pleasure in the frustration on Delita's face.

When they'd first fled from the Monastery, fighting back was the furthest thing from Ovelia's find. It had taken her some time to swim out of the painful darkness into which she had been plunged: when she awoke, slumped across the chocobo's back, she found her world was dazed agony. Her neck throbbed where her captor had struck her: something inside her hurt from where her magic had been pressured and broken; she was tired, and hurt, and afraid.

So she lay like a sack of grain draped across the bird's back, as her captor took them plunging over hills and across wide, rough plains, and the chocobo's steps never faltered as it plunged along besides the burbling stream, riding ever north and west, free of any road or path. The rain poured down upon her, soaking her so she was cold and shivering, and the only light to guide their path was crackling of lighting and the nebulous glow of the half-moon hidden in the clouds.

With dawn came the slackening of the rain and the brightening of the skies, and after hours long riding her red-haired captor bade his mount halt. He helped Ovelia down from the bird, and lay her, shuddering and aching, upon a blanket he stretched upon the ground. Then he efficiently built a fire, which sputtered and smoked in the low drizzle still raining down upon them.

"I'm sorry, your Highness," her captor said. "I certainly didn't-"

He kept talking, but Ovelia didn't hear him. She was dazed and uncertain, floating dreamlike through this cold, wet, awkward reality, but she hadn't slept and she hadn't really rested and now the tiredness was closing in on her, because even the paltry warmth of the fire and the blanket beneath her was enough to lull her into rest at last.

Highness, he called her. As though he respected her. As though he hadn't hit her and dragged her away from her guard.

A flare of rage cleaved straight through her tiredness, and her eyes fluttered open. She wasn't sure how long she'd been out: her captor was now tending to the fire, and filling his canteen in the stream. The chocobo ate from a little pile of greens at its feet. She noticed that her ring was no longer on her finger. He had taken it from her. He wanted to keep her powerless.

She shot to her feet, charged forwards and kicked him square in his rump, so he fell with a yell and a splash into the stream. She turned and ran at once, following the stream back the way she'd come. As she passed the chocobo, she slapped the creature's side with all her might. It gave an indignant squawk, but did not run.

Well, so be it. Hopefully the stream would carry her kidnapper away before he could give chase

She had made her way up and over a hill before she heard his footfalls upon the grass behind her. She looked frantically for someplace to hide, then simply hiked up her skirt and ran as fast as her legs would carry her, cursing all the while the hours she'd wasted on reading and moping when she could have been exercising. It wasn't like the thought had never occurred to her: she'd broached the subject once or twice to Agrias, but her guard captain had always acted so scandalized at the notion her Princess would ever need such protection, and why had Ovelia not pushed the issue when she knew what an absolute pushover-

Something heavy hit her across the knees and dragged her to the ground. They rolled down the grassy hillside together, and then hands were grasping for wrists and no matter how she kicked and scratched and screamed she could not free herself. He cursed and gasped but wrestled her to the ground, and then began to strike in turn—her head, her stomach, until she was spinning and dizzy and gasping, and as she gasped her blows grew weaker and he was fast, so fast, fast enough she almost didn't notice as the gag was pulled between her teeth and the cords he knotted around her ankles and wrists.

She twisted and writhed, bound as she was. He had trouble lifting her at all, and twice she managed to slip free of his grasp and roll back down the hill as he tried to carry her back to their makeshift campsite. But after that second roll her head was spinning and her body aching and there was simply no fight left in her. He slumped her across his shoulders like a lame sheep.

"I was going to let you have a drink and relieve yourself," her kidnapper said conversationally. "But I suppose you'll simply have to suffer."

And suffer she did, for he wasted no more time on rest. He tossed her over the chocobo's back (the bird had remained where it had been left, watching them with curious eyes), pissed into the stream, then mounted up and rode on once more. Ovelia shouted through her gag even as it choked her, but her throat was so dry and hoarse with her screaming, and it had been a little while since she'd had any water but soon her bladder and bowels for burning and it was all she could do to hold it in as they bounced along atop the trotting chocobo.

She knew what he wanted her to do. To beg for the simple human courtesy of being able to relieve herself free of embarrassment. And again that spike of rage drove any thought of surrender from her mind, drove back even the heavy waves of sleep so she kept her eyes open though they stang with tears.

When the chocobo's winding path took it a little into the stream she saw her chance. She rolled on the chocobo's back and plunged into the cold water. The shock of it sloughed off any trace of tiredness that remained, and she held her breath and twisted and twitched as she felt him fighting to pull her from the water, twisted enough that she felt him fall from his bird as he overextended himself, and though he jerked her gargling from the water still she writhed in his grasp, until he flung her against the rocky shore.

The stones dug into her back, but Ovelia ignored the pain and kept rolling, back towards the water, until she found her captor's boot against her neck, his sword in hand. He glared down at her, at pressed the swordpoint gently against her belly.

"You want to die, Princess?"

Ovelia tried to speak against the gag, and growled in frustration. Her kidnapper pursed his lips, then in one quick move hooked a finger against the gag and pulled it free.

She took in a great breath to start screaming, and the boot pushed against her throat again. "Really, Princess?"

No, in this case it was pragmatism instead of defiance. Screaming when no one was around to hear would earn her nothing but pain.

"Kill me, if you're going to," she spat.

"You think I won't?" he asked.

"I think if you were going to, you could have let them do it at the Monastery."

Her captor shrugged. "I won't bother trying to convince you otherwise," he said. "But just because I'm not going to kill you doesn't meant I'm not going to hurt you."

Ovelia laughed as her bruises ached. "You've hurt me already."

"You have no idea what hurt is."

There was terrible ice in his voice, and Ovelia felt it cut right through her fury and her fear. She looked up at the man who had taken her hostage, the man with the red hair and the fearsome eyes and the burn scars upon his cheek.

"If you could really hurt me," Ovelia said, though she could not hide the tremble in her voice. "I think you would have done it by now."

The man's mouth twisted to one side. He moved his boot away from her throat, and sheathed his sword. There was no more rain upon them, though they both still dripped from their plunge into the stream. Ovelia's bladder and bowels burned, her stomach ached, her throat was dry, and pangs and pains reached her from her dozens of bruises and scrapes—both the ones her kidnapper had inflicted on her, and the ones she'd inflicted on herself..

"Your Highness-" he began.

"Stop it!" she shrieked, and their was more terror and hysteria in her voice than she cared to admit but something in the way he said it drove her mad. "Stop it," she repeated, more quietly, as he blinked in confusion. "You don't...I don't know why you're using my rank, but it's fake. I can hear it."

The man shrugged. "So what should I call you?"

"Ovelia."

A flicker of a smile appeared and then vanished from his face. "Nearly too bold for me, your-"

She managed to hook her feet around to kick him in the shin. He cursed and hopped backwards, rubbing at the injured shin.

"You're persistent," he grunted. "I'll give you that."

"I won't stop fighting," she said.

"You'd rather I let you get killed?"

"I'd rather you give me back to my guard."

"The same guard who failed to stop your assassins?"

She had to admit, he had a point. Mingled doubt and irritation gave her the energy to retort, "The same guard who doesn't kidnap and beat me when I don't do what they say."

He shrugged. "If a quick punch gets you to stop squirming-"

"So gallant."

"You're the one fighting, Prin-" he caught the fire in his eyes, and hastily corrected himself. "-Ovelia."

"And that makes it okay?"

"The world does not play fair, Ovelia," he said. "I will not eschew a useful tool because I'm not supposed to use it."

And Ovelia was surprised to find a new emotion, mingling with the weight of her exhaustion, the heat of her anger, the withering discomfort of her pain. She was surprised to find that she was envious. She had spent so long on rules of courtly behavior, on civility, that the idea that she could set these things aside and act as she willed...

She envied anyone who had such freedom.

"Who are you?" she asked.

The man cocked his head to one side. He hesitated, his mouth open a little, his eyes considering. "Delita," he said at last.

An uncommon name, wasn't it? But Ovelia was certain that she'd heard it somewhere before. When? Where? And what did it matter, for surely she would know if it were some nobleman or mercenary, some assassin to be feared or power to be treated cautiously. He was just what he seemed to be—an uncivil ruffian with an unknown agenda.

She glared at him. He stared steadily back. After awhile, Delita said, "Ovelia. I will not promise you safety—anyone who claims they can is lying to you. But I will say that, if you do not fight me, I will do everything in my power to keep you from harm."

"But you won't return me to my guard," Ovelia said.

Delita shrugged. "Do you honestly believe you'd be safer in their care?" he asked. "With the royal family after you?"

And of course Ovelia wasn't sure, nothing was certain, and she could admit to herself that she'd been fighting Delita so fiercely in part because he was a complete unknown, a question that did not rankle and ache, that did not make her distrust everything and everyone she'd known these past few years, because if the royal family was after her who knew who she might count as an enemy? Agrias? Alicia? Lavian?

Alma?

No surely not. Alma had been her friend, honest and true, but why was there a Beoulve among her guards when the assassins came calling? What did it mean?

"I need to..." Ovelia began, because she was uncertain and tired and afraid and in desperate need to relieve this burning pressure against her belly and still she could not shake off the cursed courtly rules of delicacy. "To attend to my needs."

Delita nodded, and unbound the cords on her arms and legs. He helped her to her feet, then turned his back upon her, hands on his hips. She considered shoving him again, but a particularly nasty ache in the pit of her stomach quieted that thought. And Delita was right: she did not know nearly enough, and there were other enemies out there, enemies who wanted her dead. She could but hope she had slowed him enough for her guards to catch up. Besides, she thought, as she hiked up her skirt and squatted, she could always start fighting again if she changed her mind.

When she was finished, Delita helped her on to the chocobo again, and they were off and riding, stopping only for the shortest rests. Delita insisted on binding and gagging her anytime he needed sleep. Ovelia tried to protest but without much conviction: she supposed it was what she would have done, if their roles were reversed.

Still, if she could recognize that he was being a decent captor, she could still enjoy his discomfort and annoyance when they reached the forest so much slower than he'd clearly wanted to, still following the stream. He'd bound her hands and gagged her when they'd reached the edge of the woods, so there was not much more joy to be had. Gradually the trees became too thick to remain mounted, and Delita dismounted, helped her down, and led chocobo and princess behind him through the forest and alongside the narrow, muddy stream, until they reached a winding trail that led beneath a low, tree-cluttered rise.

"You're late, Heiral!" growled a deep voice. Ovelia and Delita looked up the hill to find a blonde man standing on a slight rise, leaning back against a white-barked tree. He wore rough clothes and a sword upon his hip.

"Our Princess is quite a handful," Delita said. "Sorry to keep you waiting, Folles."

"You know I don't mind," the man—Folles, apparently?—grunted. "But Vor-"

"I believe I told you," said an impassive voice that rumbled with its every word. "That I don't want my name repeated in company."

Folles shrugged. "Who's she going to tell?"

"We have not yet secured her," said the voice, and as it spoke the man came into view. Ovelia felt a chill race up her spine. He was a little shorter than Folles, and wore a sword upon his hip and a roughspun tunic pulled tight against a broad chest. A mane of greying hair hung just above his thick eyebrows, which stretched like grim forests across the craggy expanse of his face. His eyes were the worst—grey as flint and twice as hard, so she thought she might cut herself upon his gaze. Even if Ovelia hadn't been gagged, she thought she might have stayed silent, rather than incur that man's ire.

"But we will, yes?" Delita said.

"Nothing is certain," grunted the hard-eyed man. "Not in Ivalice."

Delita eyed the narrow trail and then glanced back at the bird. "I don't think even Boco could handle the trail."

"Not with two riders," agreed Folles.

"But with one?" Delita said in surprise.

"He's a fine bird," Folles said.

"That he is." Delita patted the bird's neck, which warbled gratefully.

Ovelia stayed very still, trying to listen closely to their words. Collaborators, that much was obvious, and traveling incognito based on their rough clothes. Delita and Folles obviously didn't mind if she knew their names, but the hard-eyed man was more cautious. Did he have more to lose? Why? Did he have some rank, some title?

"So we're going on foot?" Delita said.

"That would seem the wisest course," the hard-eyed man said. "I don't think we're like to pass through any trouble, are we?" He glanced to Folles.

"Not much between here and Bethla," Folles said. "But I can't promise anything. As you said, nothing is certain in Ivalice thse days."

The hard-eyed man grunted, but said nothing. Delita finished patting the bird and looked back up at the hill. "Val's got everything ready?"

"She should," the hard-eyed man answered. "But they're only to smooth the way. We can't have the Duke-" He broke up, frowning down at her.

Now this was interesting. Who was Val, and what did she have to do with this group? They mentioned the Duke, and she had to assume they meant Goltanna, but it seemed as though he were not aware of the full extent of this plot? Yet Folles indicated they intended to take her to Bethla Garrison. What were their intentions.

"So what are we waiting for?" Delita asked.

"You're late," grunted the hard-eyed man.

"Not much I can do about that."

"No?" The grey-haired man turned his flint eyes upon her. She stared back steadily, afraid to meet his gaze, afraid to look away. "You should count yourself lucky, your Highness," he said. "Were you in my care, I would not have tolerated any such delays."

Ovelia tried to express no emotion in her eyes, no fear or anger or doubt. The man regarded her for awhile, then shrugged and looked back to Delita. "You're late. Word may have spread. Our friends are making sure you weren't followed."

Delita frowned. "So why not keep moving if-"

"And if others had reached the Woods ahead of you?" the hard-eyed man asked. "If a trap waits to spring ahead, and keep us from Bethla?" The man shook his head. "No, I think we will wait. I have no interest in seeing our plans delayed."

Delita rolled his eyes. "The assassins had no birds," he said. "Nor the mercenaries. Even her guard had but the single pack bird."

"But you. Are. Late." The hard-eyed man said the last word with evident finality.

Delita shrugged and led Boco and Ovelia forwards a little. "How have you been, Wiegraf?"

Wiegraf? Was that the name of the grey-haired man? But it was Folles who answered: "Busy, same as you. Though not as comfortable, mind."

"Yes, comfortable," Delita said sarcastically. "Always comfortable to be instigating treason right under the Crown's nose."

"It's not technically treason," the blonde man—Wiegraf, or Folles?—answered.

"It seems a real thin line."

Folles grinned. "I'm well-acquainted with it."

"I know."

"How's the new sword treating you?"

"Good. It's so much easier to-"

Rustling in the trees. Instantly every man present seemed to have a sword in hand, and their swords all glowed and gleamed in ways that made Ovelia's eyes water. More questions, because these were swords of power, the kind nobleman might envy, but they did not seem part of a royal plot so where had they gotten such weapons?

A moment later, and a tall swordsman with cold blue eyes darted out of the woods, blood dripping down the naked sword he held in his hands.

"Hokuten," he said.

The hard-eyed man cursed. "How many?"

"Too many."

For just a moment, stunned silence in the clearing.

"How?" Delita exclaimed.

"Doesn't matter how," the hard-eyed man growled. "They're here now. Make for the Falls."

"But-"

"Our names are too well-known. It has to be you. _Go!_ "

The hard-eyed man and his cold-eyed companion darted into the white trunks and were lost from sight. Wiegraf moved down the hill, and Delita pulled bird and princess in his wake.

And Ovelia pulled away from him.

A Hokuten garrison in the trees meant safety. Agrias had probably rallied them with word of her kidnapping—Dorter was such a short ride from Orbonne, after all, that was where the Monastery got so much of its supplies—and now rescue was at hand and she had listened closely and heard enough. She had reason to fear some plot against her, but it could be with the men around her just as easily as it could be with the men chasing her and she would rather find her guard again, find _safety_ again.

Delita stumbled, then twisted around with wide and wild eyes to stare at her. She pulled against her bindings, watched him warily for any fresh blow. She saw furious fire flow across his face, and something else too, a peculiar desperation she didn't quite understand, because it wasn't terror so what was it?

"Delita?" Folles said, somewhere behind him.

Delita held up a forestalling hand. He took a deep breath, and stopped pulling on her bindings. "Ovelia," he said. "If the Hokuten find you, you will be dead before the night is out."

Ovelia mumbled through her gag, cursed the thick cloying binding smothering her tongue. Delita hesitated, then pulled down the gag. She considered screaming, but the fact was that Delita had saved her from men who meant to kill her, men who must have been royal agents of one sort or another. She needed answers.

"Why?" she asked.

"Who wants you dead?" Delita asked.

She didn't know. How could she know? Unless...unless it was the Queen, of course. Unless it was Louveria Larg. He seemed to see the dawning understanding in her eyes, for his next question was, "And who is the Queen's brother?"

Bestrald Larg, who commanded the Hokuten.

"Oh," she said.

He nodded. "I know you have questions," he said. "I can give you answers. But not here. Not now. Please, your High..." He took another deep breath. "Ovelia. Please."

Behind her, Ovelia heard distant shouts, the rustling of branches, a long shrill scream and the sound of shattering metal ringing and clinking like bells and instruments. Behind her she heard the sound of the Hokuten closing in. Her saviors, or her killers? And the man in front of her—savior, or kidnapper?

But that decided her. Behind her lay a chance of dying. Ahead, just further captivity.

She lifted her hands, pulling at the bindings. Wordlessly, Delita sliced his sword up through the rope, which parted like butter. He pulled her ring from his pocket, and tossed it to her: she caught it and slipped it onto her finger.

"Come on!" he shouted, and together the three of them ran along the bank of the narrow stream, with the clangor of battle ringing out behind them.


	37. Chapter 36: The Ghosts of Zeakden

(If you're enjoying the story and want to hear my musings on the chapters (or just want more content), please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 36: The Ghosts of Zeakden**

 _…even the official histories cannot conceal the seams that reveal where the official account meets with actual truth. Yes, Delita Heiral and Princess Ovelia fled into the woods, with traitorous Hokuten in hot pursuit. But nothing accounts for their joint disappearance: little is known of either over the weeks to come, until their reappearance sparked the War of the Lions. Where did they disappear to? And how was a full Hokuten garrison, prepared for war, driven from the Araguay Woods with wounds and casualties, and not a single body of their unknown enemies to show for it?_

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The War of the Lions"_

Three days of hard marching before they reached Araguay Woods. Three days pounding over hills as they followed the same stream-bound path along which Delita had taken the Princess Ovelia. They could not know that he would stick to it, of course, but they had to hope. What other lead did they have?

They never rested for long. Alicia would set a timer in the form of a magic pentacle, and in the thickest heat of the day, when the humidity and sun would combine and reduce everything to a thick, choking, moist heat, the little group would bed down in what shade they could find, each resting for two hours and standing guard for thirty minutes. Then off again, to eat on the road and drink from the stream when they found time, with only the most grudging stops to relieve themselves.

Conversation was sparse upon the road. No one complained—the guards did not, for their Princess was ahead of them, and Ramza did not, for Delita was alive in the world and he needed to know why.

But he was not alone here. He knew why he and the Lionesses labored so hard in their chase. Why did Radia

"Radia," he said, doubling back a little so they trailed behind the Lionesses, marching a little slower so they would not slip back down the rain-slick hill.

She didn't look at him. Her breath was a little ragged and her face a little pink, but otherwise she looked none the worse for wear. "Yeah?"

"Why..." Ramza trailed off. Even after thinking about it for several hours, he still wasn't quite sure what he wanted to ask. Besides, it seemed a foregone question at this point. She was hardly going to stop this grueling march now, so far from the main road and civilization.

Radia seemed to confirm this belief, since she did not answer. Ramza continued to trudge along beside her, his eyes heavy, his mind still bright with questions.

"I thought we were the only ones," Radia said, and Ramza's gaze snapped back to her. "Who walked away from...from Zeakden."

He remembered the rumbling of the gunpowder explosions, the fires burning as the fort collapsed around them. He swallowed and nodded.

"And he's...he's Teta's brother, right?" Radia said. "I'd...I'd like to meet him."

Ramza nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak. He reached out and gave her shoulder a hesitant pat. She gave him a wry look, and Ramza flushed.

"Shut up," Ramza said.

"I didn't say-"

"Having a nice chat back there!" came Agrias' harsh cry, and Ramza and Radia both looked up guiltily. Agrias wasn't even looking back at them, just marching on through the miserable drizzle. Lavian's eyes were fixed forwards as well, though Alicia shot them a sly, smug glance.

Ramza exchanged wide-eyed glances with Radia, whose eyes abruptly glittered.

"We were, actually!" she shouted back. "Hope it doesn't bother you!"

"If you've breath enough to talk," Agrias replied. "We can march a bit faster, can't we?" She picked up her pace, and with a curse Alicia and Lavian followed suit. Radia rolled her eyes and trotted forwards, outpacing Alicia and Lavian, forcing Agrias to march still faster. Ramza struggled to keep up.

Ramza was still annoyed with Agrias hours later, when they'd slowed to a more reasonable pace to accommodate the aching in their calves. Radia had insistently strode at the head of the group, probably to mock Agrias. To Ramza's surprise, Agrias dropped back until she was walking next to him. He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead, but watched her from the corner of his eye. He imagined she was doing the same to him.

"He's your friend," she said abruptly.

Easy to guess who she meant. "Yes."

"So who are you, Ramza Lugria?" she asked. "That you keep company with a man like Gaffgarion? That you know a man who has _kidnapped our Princess_?"

Venom in her voice, but her face remained stony, her eyes fixed forwards. Ramza did not answer right away. She had reason to distrust the Hokuten, which meant she had reason to distrust the Beoulves. What could he safely say?

"We fought with the Hokuten," he said. "During the Death Corps Rebellion."

"Hokuten," Agrias scoffed.

Ramza nodded. "When we saw what they were doing, we...we had our doubts. But we were deployed to Zeakden."

He saw her brow furrow. "Zeakden?"

"For in the north," he said. "The last battle. Someone blew it, and...I though he died."

They marched on in silence for a minute or more.

"And I'm just supposed to believe you?" she asked.

Why should she? He was lying as they spoke.

The silence stretched again. After a moment, she said, "What's he like?"

"Smart," Ramza said. "Thinks very fast, and he's...he's an excellent fighter."

"But you don't know if he has help?"

"I don't."

The rain was easing off now, leaving only the thick humidity of summer in its wake. Ramza's lungs felt heavy with it, and his clothes sodden.

"You were right," Agrias said. "I cannot afford to turn away help. But the Hokuten takes an interest in their Princess just before her kidnapping? They send a man like Gaffgarion, accompanied by his daughter and a man who knows her kidnapper?" She shook her head. "You cannot be trusted."

Ramza did not argue. He had no right to.

It was late afternoon when the woods came into view in the distance, and already Ramza could tell something was afoot. Soldiers moved along the edges of those woods, with the gleam of metal on their breasts and hips and the feathered shapes of chocobos tied in the centers of their camps. Agrias broke into a trot, and the others followed her as she closed the gap between them and these patrolling soldiers. Ramza still felt a little stab of cold when he saw the white lion upon the sky-blue cloak.

"Gaffgarion made good time," grunted Agrias, over the heavy breathing of their group.

"Halt!" came a high shout, shaky and young. Ramza and Radia obediently slowed; so, too, did Alicia and Lavian. Agrias continued to charge unabated.

"Halt!" cried the same thin voice, and they could see the speaker now—a short, pudgy young man with a mild corkscrew of red hair above his round face. He was gesturing frantically, and a nearby archer was hesitantly cocking an arrow to his bow. "Or we will be force to-"

"I am Agrias Oaks, Captain of Princess Ovelia's personal guard!" she bellowed. "Stand aside!"

The pale young man went paler still, his eyes bulging. He waved in the opposite direction, but stood his round. "I'm sorry, Captain!" he squeaked. "I have my orders! No one is allowed through until the Princess is secured."

Agrias came to a stop, her hand resting casually upon the hilt at her hip. Ramza and the others hurried to catch up with her. Ramza looked along the treeline, and found that there were other little clusters of Hokuten soldiers stationed at regular intervals, with patrols moving between them. Several of the nearer clusters were moving towards them. In total, there looked to be some fifteen men and women nearby, with who knew how many farther along. He tried to figure out how large the Dorter Garrison might be, and how many men they'd send for such a mission.

"As I said," growled Agrias. "We are her guard-"

"I'm sure that's so, ma'am!" the young man managed. "But Major Gerhardt gave strict instructions!"

"And what exactly _were_ these instructions?" Alicia demanded, with a theatrical flourish of her scepter that left a little trail of sparks behind it.

"Th-that their was a plot to kidnap the Princess," the young soldier answered, sidling away from the scepter. "And th-th-that we h-had to make sure th-that the p-p-princess was s-safe. H-had to make sure no one got in, and no one g-got out."

Ramza could see from the corner of his eyes that other soldiers had surrounded them—the archer, and a woman with a spear, and several other in a loose circle. Alicia and Lavian clutched at their shimmering weapons; Agrias stood with one hand wrapped around her hilt and the other curled into a fist.

"If I may, Captain?" Radia piped up from the back. Agrias shot her a distrustful glance, then gave a fraction of a nod. Radia turned to address the young man. "Name and rank, soldier?"

The young man hesitated. "C-coporal Deryk, ma'am," he stuttered at last.

Radia waved a hand airly. "No need for that, Deryk," she said. "I'm just a guardsman. Not a Coporal like you." There was a little warmth in her voice. "And so young, too! You can't be older than...what, 21?"

Ramza's mouth twisted in amusement. Radia wasn't older than 21 herself.

"Twenty," the soldiered managed, though he seemed to be blushing.

"So young!" she exclaimed, placing a hand upon his chest. "You must be quite the rising star."

Ramza was still amused but he felt something else too—a little bit of poisonous heat in his stomach, as though it were being sunburnt from the inside.

"A rising star like you," she continued, apparently ignorant of how flustered the Corporal was. "You must know all about royal orders, and how they supersede common law?"

The Corporal blinked. His mouth opened and closed like a fish.

"No?" she said. "Well, let me enlighten you." She was very close to the Corporal now, and though her hands were nowhere near her sword something in the way she held herself seemed to suggest she could draw it in an instant. "You see, our protection of the Princess is a royal charge, which means that we can do whatever is necessary in pursuit of it and can only be held accountable by the House of Lords or the royal family. And I'm sorry to say, Deryk, but you and your friends standing here, telling us we can't do our jobs? Well, that counts as standing in the way of our charge." She lowered her voice. "Now, a smart young man like you probably knows the right thing to do. I believe in you."

Deryk blinked. Still his mouth opened and closed, though no sound came out. Ramza shifted slightly, so his hand rested on his hilt; Agrias did the same, a moment later.

"Let them pass!" Deryk squawked.

Radia patted his chest, and moved past him without a backwards glance. The others followed, as shouts and questions and Deryk's stuttering explanations sounded behind them. Radia grinned at him over her shoulder, and then they were into the thick woods, pushing their way through underbrush and tripping over roots.

But Deryk's orders seemed much more sensible when they found the first body, long after they had left the noise of the Hokuten line behind. His chestplate was cracked in half, and his hair was wild. It was as though a bolt of lightning had crashed into his chest.

"Your friend?" Agrias hissed.

Ramza shook his head dumbly. "I don't know. I don't...he didn't know magic when-"

"Captain, this is high-level," Alicia said. "Look how clean the bolt is."

Agrias grimaced, but said nothing. They moved as quickly as they could through the forest, and found more signs of battle as they went. Here, fires smoldering in the grass as charred corpses lay in disarray; here, the bloody dead were in a wide circle with their weapons shattered; here two corpses had been left dangling from the branches. Every time he saw a corpse, Ramza felt a shock of fear: then they drew close, and he saw it was not Delita, but some nameless Hokuten.

Agrias hurled no accusations his way. No one man, whatever his training, could do all this. So the question was, what could?

In the distance, the sounds of fighting: shouts of alarm, and a thunderous boom that rattled the trees. Agrias took off again, and the others followed her at a wary pace. Ramza had already nocked an arrow to his bow: Alicia and Lavian held their stave and staff at the ready. The clanging of blades and the screams of dying men filled the woods as leaves crunched underfoot.

In a small clearing formed around an outcropping of rock, a battleaxe slipped from the dying fingers of the brawny man who'd held it. His killer sat on chocobo-back above him, the blood dripping down from his shimmering sword. His hair was shorter than it had been when Ramza had last seen him, cut close in military style; it still straddled the line between blonde and brown, so much lighter than his sister's. The nostrils of his hooked nose flared; the chiseled jaw dropped, and the blue eyes widened.

Wiegraf Folles looked just as surprised as Ramza felt.

"Wiegraf?" Radia squawked.

"Radia?" Wiegraf whispered. "Ramza?"

Agrias had been moving forward with blade raised. Now she halted and shot Radia an alarmed glance. "You know him?" she said.

Radia nodded. "We, uh...we fought together. A long time ago."

"What are you doing here?" Wiegraf demanded.

"We were hired to guard the princess," Ramza said. "What are you-"

" _You_ were hired?" Wiegraf said. "How the hell-"

"Wait, Wiegraf?" Lavian murmured, and though her voice was soft it seemed to cut right through the clamor and the confusion. "As in...as in _Wiegraf Folles_?"

Ramza did not like the tone of recognition in Lavian's voice.

"Who's that?" Alicia asked.

"The commander of the Death Corps," whispered Lavian, leveling her staff at Wiegraf. Agrias raised her sword as Alicia pointed her scepter and the air shimmered around Wiegraf's blade.

"No!" Ramza and Radia shouted together, leaping between the two warring parties, weapons lowered, hands out imploringly.

The hatred in Agrias' gaze staggered Ramza where he stood. Her whole face was contorted with rage. "Anti-royalists," she hissed. "And the friends of assassins and kidnappers." She raised her sword.

"I was in the Corps!" Radia shouted. "We wanted to-"

"Traitors!" Alicia cried, and embers danced above the gem of her scepter.

"HALT!" came a confident cry, and suddenly the rustling of feet upon grass and deitrus was all around them, faces half-glimpsed between verdant shadows. No one too close, but the woods were too thick, and Ramza could not make sense of their numbers.

"Oh, hell!" Wiegraf spat.

"Don't you move!" Agrias shouted.

"All of you are to throw down your weapons and surrender, by order of his Highness, Prince Larg!"

Agrias did not take her eyes off Ramza. "This is Agrias Oaks of the Lionsguard!" she called. "We have some of the conspirators captive!"

"She thinks _us_ conspirators?" muttered Wiegraf.

"She thinks us captives?" Radia said, and her grip tightened on the sword pointing towards the ground.

"Hold your tongue!" Alicia snapped.

"Please," Ramza started. "We don't-"

The scene was interrupted by an arrow from the woods around hit Wiegraf in the shoulder so he fell cursing form the back of his squawking bird. Agrias lunged towards him: Ramza was on his feet in moments, and Radia snapped up her blade and met her, sword against sword.

A horrendous, whispering _smack_ as something shattered against metal. Agrias stumbled, as the broken pieces of an arrow rained down from her armor. She gasped from the impact.

"No!" Lavian shouted, and hammered the heel of her staff into the ground. A moment later, and a shimmering orb expanded around them. Two arrows were caught fast, each clearly angled for a different member of her party.

"Fucking mages!" came a murderous cry from the woods.

"Watch your arrows!" Alicia screamed.

"They were, you fool!" Wiegraf barked. "They were aiming for her!"

Alicia looked befuddled. Agrias shook her head as more arrows hissed into the field. Lavian was already on her knees, hands tight around the staff, swaying unsteadily.

"That makes no sense," Agrias said. "Why-"

"Who do you think tried to kill your Princess?" Wiegraf growled

"The Nanten!" Agrias snapped. "You!"

"We saved her," Wiegraf said. "From Larg's plot."

"And we're supposed to trust the commander of the Death Corps?" Alicia demanded.

"You're supposed to recognize that I haven't tried to kill you," Wiegraf said.

"He's right," Ramza said. "He could have."

"How would you know?" Agrias scoffed.

"I tried it before," Wiegraf said mildly. "And Delita, too."

Ramza's heart fogged with confusion again. "You're here with him?"

Wiegraf's eyes flicked in a wide arc around them. The figures of the Hokuten were much closer now—some fifteen men and women, five archers and ten with other weapons. One spear-bearing woman was close enough to prod the sphere with her spearpoint. Lavian flinched with every prod.

"Not the time, I think," Wiegraf said.

"We're asking the questions!" Agrias insisted.

"A battlefield is no place for questions," Wiegraf replied.

"Ours is a royal-"

Other soldiers had moved closer now, all with weapons drawn.

"Lavian," Radia said, resting her hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Don't touch her, traitor!" Alicia cried, but Lavian's color looked better at once, and she seemed much more steady.

Radia gave Alicia a withering look, though she seemed much paler than before.

"What did you do?" Ramza asked.

"Like Wiegraf said," Radia answered, though she seemed a little slumped and drawn. "No time for questions."

"Assassins on all sides," Wiegraf said. "Gunning for your Princess' heads, and ours as well. Do you intend to bare your throat to their blades?"

Wiegraf and Agrias glared at each other. "Lavian," Agrias said. "Get ready."

"Yes, Captain," Lavian said in a small voice.

"Ramza," Wiegraf said. "Your friend is heading for the Falls."

"I know," Ramza said.

"I do not think he will make it on his own."

Wiegraf and Ramza locked eyes. Ramza's head was swimming with questions—how had Delita survived? What was he doing here? What was Wiegraf? What did the Hokuten want with the Princess, and what did Wiegraf and Delita want?—but one by one they melted away with the clarity of the fight. He felt like their little forest scene was crystallized before him; the shadowed light leaking through the canopy of leaves and branches above them; the rippling of the bubble Lavian had made to protect them, abutting even the rocky outrcropping that protected them on one side: Lavian, Alicia, and Radia standing together, watching each other and the lurking Hokuten with wary eyes; Agrias, slightly hunched where the arrow had struck her, sword in hand, eyes wild; Wiegraf, staring steadily back at Ramza, with his chocobo just behind.

"What are you after?" Ramza asked.

"No more Miludas," Wiegraf said. "No more Tetas."

The words were lightning in Ramza's veins.

"Now!" Agrias shouted, and the bubble burst outwards, throwing the spear-bearing woman and a dark-faced swordsman on their backs. Radia was upon them in an instant, thrusting her sword into the belly of the swordsman, and there was a gust of hot flame as Alicia gestured with her scepter and Ramza was moving, not towards the surrounding Hokuten but towards the bird, vaulting onto its back in one fluid motion, and Wiegraf shouted, "Go, Boco!" and the bird went tearing through the white tree trunks with Ramza hunched low upon its back, racing for the Princess he'd promised to protect, for the friend he'd thought was dead.


	38. Chapter 37: Surrounded

(If you're enjoying the story and want to hear my musings on the chapters (or just want more content), please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 37: Surrounded**

They plunged through the forest, tripped over protruding roots and slippery patches of leaf-thick mud. Behind them and around them came noises Ovelia could not make sense of—shouts and fiery blasts, the crackling of lightning and the creaking and cracking of trees, the teeth-wrenching squeal of breaking metal and the heart-rending screams of dying souls.

And Ovelia ran beside the man who had kidnapped her, terrified of what was happening, of what she knew and all she did not know.

There was crashing in the underbrush around her. Two Hokuten soldiers holding swords and shields appeared. "Princess!" shouted one.

Wiegraf fell upon them, slicing down from atop his chocobo. The one who'd shouted ducked back, cursing; his companion ducked low, sidled past Wiegraf and slashed at Delita. Delita thrust out with his shimmering sword, and a burst of force hurled the woman back so she crashed against a tree. Folles moved on the other man, and there was more rustling from the trees around them.

"Damn," hissed Wiegraf. "Delita, go!"

Delita grabbed Ovelia's wrist and took off at a run, pulling her along behind him. From behind a trunk burst a burly man with a hatchet in each hand. He hurled one and Ovelia cried out before Delita's sword smashed the offending hatchet from the air. Then Delita lunged, and ran the soldier through.

"Come on!" Delita shouted over his shoulder, and shoved the woman off his sword with one booted foot. Ovelia followed without thinking, too shocked to do anything but obey. Because when the hatchet and hurled through the air, it hadn't been aimed for Delita. It had been aimed for her.

Was it true, then? The Hokuten sought her head? Nanten on the one side, Hokuten on the other, a royal plot angling for her throat and an abusive captor her only possibility of salvation? Ovelia ran on, following Delita's back because she didn't know what else she could possibly do.

No more Hokuten appeared around them, though she could hear the cracking of branches underfoot, the thunder of explosions and magic, the clashing of metal ringing beneath the rustling canopy of leaves. The forest felt alive with dangers, shadows she could almost see, blades she could almost feel.

She ran, in terror and doubt, with the branches creaking overhead, the leaves crunching underfoot, the sounds of battle all around. She ran until she could hear the Falls: first a dull rumbling, then a steadily mounting roar, and trickles of mist filled the thinning woods as she and Delita ran. The ground grew rockier and the roaring of the Falls grew louder, and soon they were pulling themselves along slick rocks with the help of patchy saplings, and Ovelia's lungs ached in her chest and her hair was damp with sweat against her forehead and she didn't dare to stop.

Above her, the rocky slopes of the Zirekile mountains climbed high into the air. Here and there, old trails and spray-worn stairs zigzgged across the imposing stone, but it was hard to see too high: there was such a fog upon those mountains, as mist rose up off the river and the plunging Falls. Almost no trace of the Araguay woods remained: only the thinnest and most pitiful saplings and scrub grass, springing from the cracks in the water-slick stone.

The hissing of an arrow cutting through the air: Delita stumbled in front of her as it hit home with a meaty _thnk._ The feathered shaft quivered in his shoulder as he yelled curses into the moist breeze. Ovelia gasped, her eyes flickering up to find a shadow moving against the fog, drawing back its bowstring. She flung up hand and willed, felt cool wind burst from her fingertips and coalesce into a shimmering pearl ward. The arrow bit into it, and she felt it like a blow to her stomach.

"Keep moving!" Delita shouted, and Ovelia staggered after him, searching for any new danger as they worked their way up the slopes. Another arrow bit into the stone beneath his feet, and Delita twisted aside, roaring in rage, and Ovelia tried to keep her pearl shield moving with them but it was too much, every step winded her as though she were running full-out.

Tired. So tired. So many men and women, angling for her throat with weapons in hand, and now the only one who'd tried to save her was stumbling with an arrow in his shoulder.

"Let me see that!" Ovelia said, reaching for the arrow.

"There's no time!" Delita hissed, his eyes raking the shadow-thick slopes.

They crested a ridge of stone and came out onto a level plateau, bisected neatly in two by the pounding fury of the Zirekile Falls. Even with the mounting roar in her ears, Ovelia was unprepared for the sheer staggering scale of it. On one side was the same blunt, impassive rock of the mountains, where dim figures still jogged along stairs and trails. At the steepest part of this stone wall, the blue/white water raced down in an imposing curtain and then cascaded into a rushing rapids which surged down a narrow canyon of abrupt walls. A rickety rope bridge swayed unsteadily above the chasm, the only way to cross the plateau that did not require a steep and slippery climb up the rock face above.

The figures on the slopes moved closer, men and women with weapons in hand, and Ovelia felt a flash of panic to see their blades gleaming in the wan light leaking through the thick fog. They were running for the bridge, and Ovelia's blood turned icy. If they reached it first...

She and Delita wordlessly put on an extra burst of speed. Two of the soldiers had reached the plateau, and were tearing away from their fellows, heading straight towards them. An arrow hissed out of the mist and clattered against the stony ground just in front of Ovelia.

"Shield!" Delita shouted, as they closed the gap between the two charging soldiers, and Ovelia snapped up her fingers, willed and felt that odd exhausted part of her ache in protest but she forced herself past it, forced pearly to unfurl in a loose half-dome just before and in front of her and Delita. An arrow bit into the shield: then another. Each rocked Ovelia where she stood, leaving her gasping for air.

"Push!" Delita shouted, as the two soldiers—a man and a woman, one with a spear and one with a sword—drew close, and Ovelia pushed the bubble outwards in a sweeping blow, and they raised their weapons and cut into it and she pain was such she thought she might pass out but still she pushed and they stumbled backwards.

"Break it!" Delita roared, and Ovelia let the shield fall as Delita leapt forwards, his sword falling in one clean arc. It shimmered, pulsed, and exploded into bright white light and thunder so loud it left her reeling. The two soldiers were flung like rag dolls in either direction, battered and burned. The man landed at a sickening angle, his arm bent the wrong way, screaming. The woman somersaulted and somehow landed on her feet. She swayed back and forth, her eyes glazed, part of her scalp burnt away to reveal blackened skin that stretched down half her face: then she collapsed face down upon the ground.

"Halt!" brayed a nasally voice, and Delita looked up with sword pointed, his injured arm slumped awkwardly. The other four soldiers had fanned out around them—two women with swords, one man with a mace, one with an axe. The man with the axe—a tall, reedy specimen with lank blonde hair—stood between them and the bridge. Above them, two archers were visible upon a winding rut that snaked its way up near the tumbling falls, their arrows trained on Delita.

"I don't take orders from you," Delita shouted back, raising his voice to be heard above the Falls.

"So who do you take your orders from?" asked the knight. "Return to the Princess to our care and name your masters, and you shall find the crown most merciful."

Delita laughed and raised his voice still higher. "You mean to kill the both of us."

No sign of shock on any of the nearby faces, and that lack of emotion was more damning tha the hatchet that had been thrown at her, the arrow that had hurtled out of the dark. If Delita's accusations had been so laughable, surely there would have been some sign from the soldiers around her. Surely someone would have laughed or scoffed or choked back outrage. But every soldier maintained their steady gazes. None were surprised by what they'd heard.

The lank-haired man shook his head and offered Ovelia a wan smile. "Do not worry, your Highness," he said. "We will see you safe from this maniac."

They had come to kill her. Nanten on one side, Hokuten on the other, those assassins in the Monastery, whatever role Ramza Beoulve played in all this, whoever Delita was and whoever he worked for. So much unknown. So much danger.

Ovelia felt bright rage clarifying her thoughts, banishing pain and exhaustion. She had done as she'd been asked. She had lived in the monasteries, treated coldly by women of every station who feared the Queen's wrath. She had endured the loneliness and isolation, held her tongue and played the good Princess for the sake of her kingdom, and now all these enemies surrounded her. Louveria? Bestrald? Goltanna? What did it matter to her? They had killed Katherine! They had killed Ysabel! They intended to kill her!

"You will stand down!" she bellowed. "All of you!"

Now there was a reaction on their faces: now there was surprise, consternation (was there just a hint of amusement?). The lank-haired man shook his head. "Your Highness, I have my orders-"

"Am I not your Princess?" she demanded. "Whose order might supersede mine?"

"Our Prince, your Highness," the lank-haired man said.

She stepped closer to Delita, gathered strength and energy and focused it in her ring. Their best bet was to push straight through this lank-haired bastard, knock him back and make a break for it across the bridge. She did not know where Delita intended to take her, or what his purpose was, but it had to be better than this.

"Your Prince," she sneered, as she focused her magic. "Is a political convenience. I am your Princess by blood, and you. Will. Obey!"

The lank-haired man pursed his lips. "Of course, your Highness."

He knelt, and laid his axe flat upon the ground. Ovelia felt her head go light: had that really worked? Had she really-

She saw, too late, the finger twitch: saw, too late, the archer on the slope turn his bow towards her. She lifted her finger, too late to stop him.

The twanging of a bow. The hissing of an arrow. The archer on the hill stumbled and tumbled down the slope, cracking his body against the rocks. The lank-haired man snapped up his axe: Ovelia's knees were weak with shock and relief. She, like all the soldiers, like Delita, forgot for the moment their desperate straits, and searched for the unknown archer.

"Delita!" came Ramza's high voice.

He was astride the same chocobo that had carried her and Delita from Orbonne, his bow in his hand, an arrow nocked and trained upon the last archer on the slope. The chocobo slowed to a halt, watching the assailants with lively orange eyes. Its light footfalls were masked by the pounding of the Falls against the stones.

"Ramza?" squawked Delita, and for a moment his dark eyes seemed bright with confusion, his face terribly young.

It took her a moment to realize what had just happened. It took her a moment to realize they knew each others' names. Her skin prickled, her blood turned icy cold and lava hot. Ramza Beoulve knew her captor? But that wasn't right, the Beoulves were Hokuten commanders, Larg's trusted allies, and Delita was fighting the Hokuten so how-

Delita.

Again she saw Alma's sketches. She saw the man in profile, his hair longer, his face younger, but undeniably Ramza. And she saw the other faces, dark-eyed and serious, and she had not known his hair was red from the charcoal drawing and his eyes had not burned the way her captor's eyes had burned but the resemblance was there and the name was there and perhaps it had been her anger or her pain or her fear or her confusion or the burn upon his cheek or the simple fact that Alma had been sure he was dead but now it was like the sun had risen, showing the picture in its entirety.

Ramza Beoulve, Alma's brother. And Delita, the friend she'd thought was dead.

Ovelia gasped, looking between them. "Teta's brother!" she shouted. "And you're-"

Ramza's eyes went wide. Delita's eyes went wider. And in their wide-eyed shock, the spearman lunged for Ramza.

"Watch out!" Ovelia shouted without thinking, but the bird had seen the assault and leapt backwards, fluttering its wings to keep its balance, and Ramza cursed in his seat, turned and loosed his arrow as the archer on the cliff loosed his—not towards Ramza but towards Ovelia, who caught the movement from the corner of her eye, raised her hand and did not form a barrier so much as push outwards with her magic, so the arrow corkscrewed wildy to one side, and the spearman fell back cursing as Ramza's arrow found his shoulder.

"Don't move!" Delita bellowed, his sword jabbing towards the lank-haired man who'd taken their moment's distraction to move a little closer.

The lank-haired man froze, his fingers curling along the haft of his axe. "Who the hell are you people?" he whispered

"A man who'll put an arrow through your throat if you try anything," Ramza said at once, though his bow remained trained upon the archer in the cliffs. He already had another arrow nocked—when had he drawn it? But she noticed that the quiver on his back was empty now. A Beoulve with a single arrow: a dead man with an arrow in his shoulder: a Princess who was already wheezing from the magic she had used.

"Where are the others?" Ovelia shouted.

"Dealing with an attack in the Woods, your Highness," Ramza said.

"What the hell are you doing here, Ramza?" Delita demanded.

"I was hired to reinforce her guard," Ramza answered.

"You were..." Delita shook his head.

"One of her guard?" the lank-haired man exclaimed. "Then I am sorry for the confusion, sir! We thought you were his ally. We have come to rescue the Princess from this-"

"Save your breath," Ramza spat. "Your men already took their shot at us in the forest."

Ovelia felt a flash of panic as the Lionesses' faces flashed through her mind. "Are they-" she started, and could not bring herself to finish.

"Fine, your Highness," Ramza said.

"Oh," called Gaffgarion's melodic voice. "I wouldn't go that far."

Ovelia's head jerked past Ramza, back the way she and Delita had come. Gaffgarion had just crested the ridge, strolling amicably besides a squat, pot-bellied man with an imposing shield on one arm, a familiar sword in his hand, and a Hokuten cloak upon his shoulders. Bundled beneath his back were the outlines of a scepter and a shepherd's crook.

Behind him, lurching unevenly, came three Hokuten soldiers, all with swords drawn and pressed against three throats. Agrias, Alicia, and Lavian were all disheveled, bruised and bloodied and ragged, swaying unsteadily on their feet. But Alicia and Lavian looked mostly like themselves: Agrias' face was a swollen, bruised mess, her blonde hair matted with blood, and it seemed her captor was having to hold her upright to keep her from collapsing.

Gaffgarion stood smiling in front of them, his ruddy red blade in his hand.


	39. Chapter 38: Blood to be Spilled

(If you're enjoying the story and want to hear my musings on the chapters (or just want more content), please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 38: Blood to be Spilled**

 _As always, Colonel, I am grateful for your attentiveness and your diligence, but in this case I fear it is unwarranted. The garrison near Dorter will suffice to bring these Nanten traitors to heel. And even if by some chance these soldiers should prove insufficient, Prince Orinus has loyal servants far from Lesalia and Gallione who, God willing, will see justice served._

 _-Letter from Dycedarg Beoulve to Colonel Orrick of the Hokuten Garrison in Gariland, denying offer of reinforcements._

Ramza's blood was singing and sizzling, his mind blurry with the sheer breadth of what he had seen and faced. Ovelia, with Teta's name upon her lips: Delita, for all his differences alive and recognizably his friend; the Hokuten soldiers making their attempts upon all their lives; the thrill of the stand-off, his last arrow upon his bow, friend and Princess close at hand, with no idea what came next.

And then Gaffgarion crested the hill, and all Ramza's energy drained from his chest as though from a wound. He stared slack-jawed at Gaffgarion, who smiled cheerfully.

"Been a merry chase, hasn't it?" Gaffgarion said. "Harder than we expected, eh, Major?"

The pot-bellied man beside him grunted, his beady eyes glaring between them. "Killed my men," he spat.

"No crime to kill traitors," Delita said lightly.

"Traitors!" the Major exclaimed. "You call us traitors! We serve the crown!"

"By killing your Princess?" Delita sked.

"By serving our Prince and our Queen!"

"You fucking snake," Agrias slurred. "You..." She shook her bruised and blood-crusted head slowly from side to side.

"And why am I a snake?" Gaffgarion asked. "I do the job I'm paid to do."

For a long moment, Ramza's mind had simply stopped working. He had seen, but he had not understood. Now with a jolt the gears began to turn once more.

"You knew!" he roared, glaring at Gaffgarion.

Those dangerous green eyes lifted towards Ramza. The old mercenary considered for a moment, then shrugged. "We were only supposed to be insurance," he explained. "In case things went wrong." His eyes flickered towards Delita. "As well they did."

Delita's eyes were darting quickly around the wide circle of soldiers and captives. Still he had presence of mind enough to say, "Happy to disappoint."

"Oh, no disappointment," Gaffgarion said. "You raise so many questions. A dead man yet alive. Aware of matters far above your station. Who do you serve?"

"No one," Delita said. "I'm hear to save the Princess."

"You're joking!" Gaffgarion guffawed. "Are you a noble knight fighting for what's right? Did the Saint himself illuminate our plot for you? "

"Why not?" Delita asked.

"Even your friend no longer believes such tripe," grunted Gaffgarion, jerking his head at Ramza.

"You'll tell us who you're workin' for," the Major growled. "Willingly or not."

"I'll tell you nothing," Delita said. "I'm taking the Princess to safety."

"She's not going anywhere," Gaffgarion said.

"Your Highness!" Alica croaked from within her captor's grasp. "Run!"

The woman holding her twisted her hair back savagely, and drove a knee into the small of her back at the same time. Alicia's exhausted voice trailed off into a strangled cry, and Lavian gave a weak shout and fought her own captor until his fist struck her across the cheek

"Alicia!" Ovelia cried, taking a step towards her guards. "Lavian!"

In spite of his confusion Ramza saw the way the whole company shifted at the Princess' movement—the archer on the slope tracking her with his arrow his arrow, the swordsmen and the spearman shifting their weapons towards her.

"Ovelia!" Delita shouted. "That's what they want!"

Ovelia froze, her eyes flickering between the faces of her guards. Gaffgarion sighed.

"Your Highness," he said. "Meaning no disrespect-"

"You bastard!" hissed Lavian, spitting blood.

"-but you are going to die today," Gaffgarion continued. "The question is, who dies with you?"

Ramza stared at Gaffgarion. His mind was racing now, trying to see the larger picture, trying to think the way Gaffgarion thought. "So that was our job," Ramza said, in part to stall for time, in part because he needed to know.

"If all went as planned," Gaffgarion said. "We would make a fortune just for bearing witness to the inevitable. As it is..."

"The inevitable?" Delita asked. "Why not spell it out?"

"Why not?" Gaffgarion agreed. "The Princess is a sword ever-pointed at Orinus' heart. The Queen will not suffer such a threat to live. One way or another, she will see her removed."

"Ah, but you're being modest!" Delita exclaimed. "Why simply kill an inconvenient Princess, when she could be used to guarantee the Largs' ascendancy?"

Gaffgarion pursed his lips. "Wild speculation."

"Oh, I don't think so," Delita retorted. "See, Ramza and I know this game well. A plot to destroy one threat and diminish another in one fell stroke, and the only cost is that innocent people die. Sounds familiar, doesn't it?"

Ramza looked back at Delita, who was standing close to Ovelia as his eyes flickered across the troops who surrounded them. He felt the bird between his thighs—Wiegraf's bird. Delita said that Ramza knew the game. Why would he know it, unless he'd seen it play out before? Seen the Death Corps torn apart, and heard from Wiegraf why.

"Dycedarg," he breathed.

Gaffgarion considered for a moment, then shrugged. "What of it?"

What of it? What of the past two years he thought he'd spent beyond his brothers' shadow? What of the world he thought he'd seen with his own eyes, by his own strength? The battles he'd fought, the deeds he'd done? What of who he was supposed to be? Was he still his brothers' creature? Was he doomed to live in their shadows, for all his days to come?

As Ramza stared at Gaffgarion, feeling all their travels together melt into something hollow and false, Gaffgarion turned back to Ovelia. "Princess!" he called. "You're a smart girl. Think on it. We had no need to kill your guards. We have no need yet, if they will keep their peace. The future of Ivalice requires only your blood. Are you truly content to let them die for you?"

"Don't listen!" Alicia snarled, and the woman holding her twisted her hair again, but Gaffgarion held up a forestalling hand.

"Don't listen," Ramza repeated, so soft he could barely hear himself.

Gaffgarion shrugged. "You're going to die, your Highness. You're surrounded and outnumbered. But if you surrender yourself willingly, we will spare the lives of our guards. You have my word."

"That doesn't mean a lot coming from you!" Radia called.

Gaffgarion stiffened. His eyes flickered back to the rise behind him, as Radia slowly rose from behind the concealment of some fallen shale. Her sword was drawn, and her armor torn, but there were no wounds upon her person, even where the leather had been ripped to show the skin beneath. Her eyes were fixed on her father.

"Aim!" shouted the Major, raising a hand.

"No!" Gaffgarion shouted, and then softer, "My daughter. She doesn't realize-"

"Oh, I think you've explained it well enough," she said. "But I probably should have figured it out. 200,000's a lot to guard an unloved Princess. But for a royal assassination? It's almost insultingly cheap."

"It was not-" Gaffgarion began, then stopped. His nostrils flared, his mustache bristled, but with a deep breath he calmed himself, settling back into a relaxed posture. "We were paid to do an unpleasant job. That's the line of work we're in."

"It's not my job," Radia said. "I was paid to guard a Princess."

"Knowingly or not, you took the job."

"You knowingly took this shitty piece of business," Radia said. "I knowingly chose to protect her." She shook her head disparagingly. "Really. If only you'd told us the truth."

"This is what we do, dear daughter mine," Gaffgarion said.

"It's what _you_ do, dad," she snapped.

"It's what you've done these last years," Gaffgarion said mildly. "Bloodied your hands and filled your pockets. And before that, you fought to tear the Crown down, until you found their servants weren't all monsters. Now you'll doom Ivalice to war to soothe your conscience? What kind of monstrous hypocrite are you?"

Radia's eyes flashed. She gave a short, odd noise that might have been a laugh or might have been a cough. "You really think you're clever, don't you?"

Gaffagrion shrugged. "I think I get the job done."

"For a clever man, you're being awfully stupid," she said.

"Am I?" Gaffgarion said dryly. "Enlighten me."

"Whatever our job was supposed to be," Radia said. "I thought it was to guard the Princess. So why wasn't I with them?"

Gaffgarion pursed his lips. "How should I know?"

Radia's eyes flickered away from her father, towards the bluffs towering above them. "Wiegraf!" she shouted.

Gaffgarion's eyes widened. He jerked his head to follow her gaze, and Ramza turned his head as well, looking to that same section of the rocky slopes. But no one was there.

The slightest scrape of a boot against the rock from Gaffgarion's direction: Ramza's head snapped back around and found that Wiegraf had burst from beneath the rise, just behind Gaffgagrion and the Hokuten, his sword exploding into a burst of white force. Gaffgarion yelled in panic, snapped his sword up and shimmered: the force around Wiegraf's sword twisted as though being sucked down a drain.

"Ramza!" Radia shouted, leaping towards her father, and Ramza understood at once. He felt the cobwebs and the nightmares fall away, the fears and doubts and shock replaced by the same cold calm clarity that he had acquired in the heat of so many battles these last two years. This was a fight, like any other: these soldiers were enemies, whatever their allegiance: Gaffgarion was their leader whatever else he was supposed to be.

Ramza twisted atop the chocobo and loosed his arrow, which hurtled, swift and true, for Gaffgarion's back. It bounce off his black plate. Ramza's hand snapped back towards his quiver, found it empty.

"Ramza!" Delita howled, and as Ramza glanced back he saw Delita reaching for the arrow in his shoulder, pulling it out in one fluid motion and tossing it underhand through the air. Behind him, the archer on the cliffs loosed his arrow: Ovelia's hands rose, and pearly light caught the incoming arrow so it clattered to the ground. Ramza caught the arrow, felt the shaft wet with Delita's blood rolling across his palm, then turned and fired once more as Wiegraf stumbled backwards and Gaffgarion twisted. This time the arrow slipped through leather and mail, and found a spot on the right side of Gaffgarion's chest.

Gaffgarion gave a cry of pain and staggered, his free hand clutching at the wound. Radia burst past him, raised her sword high and brought it down as though willing thunder to fall along its edge: the air around her shimmered, and that shimmering exploded outwards, hanging like cobwebs along the soldiers who held Agrias, Alicia, and Lavian. Each of them wavered, their knees wobbling, their fingers going slack, and then Agrias burst up right, whirled on her captor and drew the sword from his scabbard before slamming it through his belly. She turned on Alicia and Lavian's captors as Radia whirled on her father.

"Ramza!" Delita shouted again, and Ramza turned to find soldiers closing in, with Delita's injured arm dangling loosely at his side, his sword strokes wild as he tried to keep the closing Hokuten at bay, shielding Ovelia as best he could as she kept the pearly dome of light between them and the archer on the cliff.

Ramza shook his chocobo's reins, and it took off at a quick trot. At the same time, Ramza whisked his saber from its sheathe. The blonde man with the axe saw him coming, brought his axe u[p in a terrific strike that sent the sword flying from Ramza's numb fingers: Ramza cursed, jerked the reins up, and the chocobo jumped clean over the axe-man's head.

"Here!" Ovelia cried: with one hand outstretched to maintain, she bent low and fumbled for the spear by the corpse near her feet. She tossed it clumsily towards Ramza, who leaned and caught it, whirling around for another charge, as Delita lunged for the axe-man's back.

A brawny man with a mace advanced upon him steadily: Ramza hefted the spear once to get the feel for its weight, then rattled the reins so his chocobo would charge once more. As he rushed towards the man across from him, he took in the chaotic scene: Radia was helping the fallen Lionesses to their feet, and Agrias was standing above the fallen body of the Major, wrenching her sword from his clasping hand as the other two grabbed for their weapons. Just beyond them, Gaffgarion advanced through a wall of white flame that parted around him as though he were a stone in a stream, and Wiegraf lunged towards him, thrusting with his blade.

But then Ramza's eyes were back to the man in front of him, swinging back his mace, and Ramza twisted in his saddle and thrust the spear and the soldier dropped his mace with a scream as pieces of his wounded hand dribbled along its sides, and then his screams were cut off with a squelch when Ramza's spear drove through his throat. The twitching of the dying man vibrated up the length of the spear into Ramza's tingling hand.

The man fell backwards, and as Ramza made to jerk the spear out of his throat there was an explosion that nearly deafened him: he felt the force of it rattle his bones. Beneath him, the chocobo warbled in alarm and jerked to one side, so that Ramza was thrown off-balance. The spear tumbled from his hand as he fought to keep his seat.

He cursed and looked away, found Delita pulling Ovelia across the bridge. Alicia was staggering along, her pale pale as she gestured with her scepter, loosing roaring gouts of flame upon the slope as the archer frantically twisted and scrabbled upon the shale, trying to keep away from the fire. Lavian, Radia, and Wiegraf were running for the bridge, while Agrias was howling in fury as she swung her reclaimed sword. Eplosions of bright force ignited from the edge of the blade, reached Gaffgarion and seemed to melt into him, making him stronger. He advanced on her steadily, his green eyes bright with rage.

"Captain Oaks!" Ramza cried, urging the chocobo on to a run, and her bruised face twitched back above her shoulder to look at him. Gaffgarion's eyes flickered towards him, then back towards Agrias: he raised his sword and lunged.

"No!" Alicia roared, snapping her scepter towards him. A bolt of crackling white lightning flew from the tip of her scepter and exploded towards Gaffgarion, who snapped up his sword. Lightning hit the blade, splashed and danced in wild arcs, and seemed to be slowly sucked into a point somewhere in Gaffgarion's chest. He seemed to blur along the outlines, to move a little faster: his steady advance broke into a pounding charge.

Was he immune to magic? Was that the strength of the Draining Blade?

Ramza leapt off the back of the chocobo, somersaulted upright next to the body of a fallen soldier, and plucked the sword from his dead hands. He lunged into the fray, brought his blade crashing against Gaffgarion's, felt the old mercenary exerting his powers against him—the tugging sensation in his chest and behind his eyes, like a strong wind was blowing from inside him. He fought against it as Radia had taught him, honed his field and tried to resist what Gaffgarion was doing, but it weakened his hands, slowed his thoughts: Gaffgarion advanced steadily, and it was all Ramza could do to keep the blade from his throat.

"A fool when I found you, and a fool you remain!" Gaffgarion snarled, and with one terrific slash knocked the blade from Ramza's hands. He lunged forward, thrusting his blade for the kill. Ramza dodged aside, kept dodging and twisting as the blade slashed and stabbed, and Ramza could hear it sing as it cut through the air. Still Ramza danced, keeping just ahead of the blade, as the roaring of the falls grew louder and louder behind him.

Before he reached the cliff's edge, Gaffgarion lunged again: Ramza spun on the balls of his feet, ducked low and kicked: Gaffgarion stumbled past him and Ramza kept spinning, lifting his arms beneath Gaffgarion's shoulders, wrestling the other man to the ground as his sword clattered to the stone. Still he struggled to keep his magic under his control: still he felt Gaffgarion fighting for it, saw it in the form of constant heat shimmer whirling along the edges of his vision.

With a bellow of rage, Gaffgarion threw himself backwards: Ramza lost his balance, and his body was hammered from both sides with the pain of impact—the stone on one side, Gaffgarion's armor on the other. His grip loosened: his focus drifted for just a moment, and he felt some part of his strength draining away. He fought the feeling, steadied himself in and out, but by the time he felt stable again Gaffgarion was already diving for his sword.

Ramza risked one quick look around his soldier, took in the bleeding and the wounded soldiers, the swaying of the rope bridge Alicia and Agrias hurried across, saw the golden feathers of the chocobo as it paced and jigged where it stood, head jerking wildly from side to side. Then he turned and ran for all he was worth. His breath came in rasping gasps: his head spun. Damn, how had Gaffgarion done so much damage in so short a time? How was he so strong?

He heard the clanking of boots behind him: he forced himself to run harder as fire unfurled from his thighs, coursed up into his belly and down into the souls of his feet. He leapt for the chocobo's back, twisted desperately and fumbled for the reins. "Go!" he shouted, and the bird took off at a scampering dash.

It hit the bridge at a full-on sprint, kept its footing even as the ragged bridge twitched and swayed beneath them. Across the bridge, Alicia stumbled as she neared the edge, and Ramza clung for dear life against the sweaty musk of the chocobo's neck, and he felt Gaffgarion set foot upon the bridge behind him.

In front of him, Delita raised his sword.

"Boco!" Wiegraf bellowed. "Jump!"

The bird sprang up, its small fingers flapping desperately. Ramza yelped as they bounded into the air, looked down and regretted it in an instant of vertigo nausea: the steep cliff walls, the rushing water, the rising mist. He thought he heard his shout of alarm echoed in a different voice behind him, but was too lost in dizzy terror to be sure.

Delita's sword slashed down, and in a shimmer of force the ropes and posts anchoring that side of the bridge exploded into broken fragments. The ropes and slats of the bridge shuddered and began to collapse, and Ramza felt his heart and stomach collapsing with them, his bowls watery, his skin cold, his eyes wide. The wind roared by him as the chocobo flapped its wings and still plunged down, down, and Ramza opened his mouth to scream.

The chocobo's curved toes found the cliff's edge. It lurched, wobbled unsteadily, and Ramza threw himself forwards and there was Radia's hand, Wiegraf's, Delita's wrapping around him and the reins of the bird, pulling them both to safety as the broken bridge collapsed down into the river with a clattering splash. Ramza panted, his chest aching with the pounding of his heart, the veins in his temple and neck throbbing with the rush of blood. He half-collapsed down from the chocobo's back, planted his hands upon his knees to keep himself upright. For some time, he stayed just like that, panting and gasping, deaf to the noise and confusion around him.

Movement from the corner of his eye: he lifted his gaze and found Gaffgarion slumped on the opposite side of the gulch, his sword askew in the dirt in front of him. Wild green eyes stabbed out at him across the gulf. Slowly, Gaffgarion rose from where he lay, picking up his sword as he climbed to his feet. He stood there, black plate and dented mail glinting with moisture rising off the Falls.

Ramza straightened himself in turn, wobbled a little until Radia's stable hands helped him steady himself. He glanced at her, and she gave him one brief, pained look. Then they turned back to Gaffgarion. Together they stood, shoulder to shoulder, staring back at the man who'd taught them, trained them, and betrayed them.

Gaffgarion shook his head, and turned away.


	40. Chapter 39: Pawns in Revolt

(If you're enjoying the story and want to hear my musings on the chapters (or just want more content), please check out my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 39: Pawns in Revolt**

They ran.

There was a moment's confusion—wary eyes and hands on weapons, everyone regarding everyone else with suspicion—but then Ovelia raised her voice and shouted hoarsely, "They can see us! They may find another way to cross!"

That provoked stunned looks among the others, and then they were off and moving again, the Lionesses sticking close to their princess, Agrias moving at a fast limp. Ovelia ached to tend to her wounds—those wounds she had suffered in pursuit of her, her, you did this Ovelia, you—but they could not tarry. Not while their enemies were so close.

But of course, they might yet have enemies in their midst.

Ovelia's head ached from the questions that were yet unanswered. The way Ramza and Delita had looked upon seeing each other...it was difficult to imagine they would feign such surprise, especially when they had been just as surprised when she had known their names and relations. But who were these men who surrounded her? Who had been the men in the forest, who had fought to buy Delita time to escape?

Questions pounded against her mind insistently. Doubt and guilt were mixed in there, too—was there another way? Should she have accepted Gaffgarion's offer, and spared her Lionesses pain and death?

But above all else she felt relief. For three days, she had been bound and hunted. For three days, she had not know what had become of her guards, or what would become of her. But now she was free, and had her Lionesses at her side once more. Now everything seemed possible.

The group came to a stumbling halt at a crossroads. One path meandered up the slope and into the mountains. The other led down the slopes into a little copse of trees. If Ovelia remembered her geography, the lower road eventually joined up with the Ydoran path through the Zirekile Mountains and down to Fort Zaland, which guarded the pass into Lionel. The upper road towards Lake Zirekile, from which Bethla Garrison, nestled safely between the Bethla Wastes and the Zirekile mountains, drew most of its water. This road was little-used by travelers—it was a long, winding, and difficult rut across inhospitable terrain, but it was much more isolated than the Ydoran thoroughfare that ran between through the mountain pass that guarded the Garrison all the way to Lesalia.

She stared at this upper path for a long time. Was that the road Delita had intended to take her down? To what end? Why was he taking her to Bethla Garrison, when Nanten knights had attacked her guard?

She looked around her, then—to the Lionesses close at hand, all plainly wounded and exhausted but standing tightly-bunched around her, watching the other four. Radia, Ramza, Wiegraf, and Delita were a little farther back, near the path they'd taken from the bridge down to this crossroads. Ramza and Radia stood on one side, Wiegraf and Delita on the other. They stared at each other blankly.

Ovelia sighed and ignored them, turning back to her Lionesses. Over their objections, she helped them each to sit. Lavian alone refuse: "You need me," she said. "If we're going to heal them."

And of course she was right. Ovelia knew some of the very basics of healing, but who knew what had happened to her guards as they'd chased her. Ajora above, the way Agrias' face looked...yes, she needed Lavian's expertise, even if Lavian was hurt.

"Fine," grunted Ovelia. "But after we've taken care of them, I'm taking care of you."

As Ovelia tended to Alicia's scrapes and bruises and Lavian began to treat Agrias, Ramza broke the silent standoff. "You're alive," he said weakly.

Ovelia looked up to see Delita nodding dumbly. "I...yeah. So, uh...so are you."

"You didn't know?" Ramza asked.

"I..." Delita looked away. "I hadn't heard, but I...I hoped."

"I'm more curious at to how the two of you started traveling together," grunted Wiegraf, looking between Gaffgarion and Radia.

"I could ask you the same," Radia said, shrugging. "Weren't they trying to kill you at one point?"

"Weren't they trying to kill _you_ at one point?" Wiegraf countered.

"Wait," Alicia rasped. "You...what?"

Radia sighed and gestured vaguely between herself and Wiegraf. "We were in the Corps," she said. "They were..." She frowned. "Hokuten sounds wrong."

"There was an incident," Delita said. "In the course of...of trying to rescue someone, we fought."

"We fought before that, Del," Wiegraf said.

Delita shrugged. "Wasn't much of a fight."

"Who the hell _are_ you people?" Alicia demanded.

Wiegraf, Ramza, Radia, and Delita exchanged nervous, uncertain glances. "We were hired to protect the Princess-" Radia began.

"No," Agrias said. Her voice was slow and sluggish, but clear. She lifted her head from her place lying on the ground, brushed off Lavian's feeble objections and sat up. Her face was still puffy with bruises and blood, but her eyes were clear. "You were hired to make sure she died."

Radia shook her head. Her face was heavy. "We didn't know."

"I know," Agrias said. "You saved her." She looked to Delita and Wiegraf. "You all...when we couldn't...when..." There were tears in his eyes, and Ovelia felt cold lightning spasming across her heart. She already hurt to see what had been done to her Lionesses as they'd tried to save her: she hurt far worse to see tears in Agrias' eyes.

"Thank you," Agrias whispered, and closed her eyes and slumped back against the ground.

No one spoke. Ovelia looked at her her guard captain, and did not know whether to speak or not. Instead she sidled over, and rested a hand on Agrias' shoulder.

"It's what we're here to do," Delita said at last.

"Funny," Radia said. "You version of guarding looks a lot like kidnapping."

"Should I have left her for the assassins?" Delita asked. "Or the Nanten?"

"Should you have taken her from the Monastery?" Radia retorted.

"You have an alternative?" Delita demanded. "The Nanten sent soldiers to hunt you down. Louveria sent assassins beneath the Monastery, and her brother had an entire garrison ready in case something went wrong. Do you think they're going to stop now?"

"So you intend to take me to Bethla Garrison?" Ovelia asked.

Her voice seemed to take the others by surprise—all turned as one to look at her. Delita seemed a little less confident than he had during their desperate ride from Orbonne to the Araguay Woods, and there was something she didn't recognize in his eyes. Guilt?

"I do," he said.

"But not to Goltanna," Ovelia said.

Delita and Wiegraf exchanged glances. Wiegraf nodded almost imperceptibly, and Delita turned back to her. "No."

"So who are you working for?" she asked.

"I can't say," Delita said.

Ramza blinked in consternation. "What?"

"Our allies have some power," Delita said. "Not enough to oppose the Lions openly, but enough to protect you. I cannot say much, but our cause is noble. We and we alone can guarantee your safety, your High..." He took a deep breath. "Ovelia."

"And why is that?" Lavian said.

"Where else can she go?" Delita asked. "Caught between the Lions, as she is? We had our reasons for wanting to take the Princess into our care. The situation hasn't changed."

"It hasn't changed?" Ramza repeated, with the pain evident in his voice and eyes.

Delita flinched, but did not look at Ramza. "No," he said.

Silence again. Ramza, staring at Delita: Delita, staring at Ovelia: Ovelia, looking past him to the path that climbed into the mountains. Bethla Garrison, and the unknown powers that had moved to rescue her from royal plots...and had employed violence to do so. She still remembered the quiet threats of the nameless hard-eyed man. She still remembered Delita's fist upon her face and in her stomach.

"Your shoulder," she said.

Delita looked towards her. She regarded him impassively, felt the courtly mask within as well as without. The fear and fury and fright of the last few days had melded into something very placid inside her, cold and grey as the sky before the storm.

"What about it?" he asked.

"Let me see it," she said.

Delita hesitated, looking guiltily between Ramza, Wiegraf, and the Lionesses. Then he shuffled sheepishly towards Ovelia, and sat in front of her. Ovelia knelt at his side and examined the wound—saw the split flesh, the oozing of muscle and blood, and the red slime coating the leather-armored shoulder. She felt the faintest flicker of nausea, and swallowed it down. Then she raised her hands to the wound, and focused power through her ring as Simon had taught her—imagining the wound healing rapidly, scabbing and closing. Pearly light unfolded from the tips of her fingers, and she felt her head swim with the effort.

"Delita," she said. "I wanted to thank you."

He did not answer her. She did not look at his face, but stayed focused on his wound. "I know it must have been very difficult," she said. "And while I am not exactly pleased with _how_ you saved me, I am still grateful to be alive."

From the corner of her eye, she saw his head bob in a faint nod. Her chest felt tight with effort, so she let the pearly light slip away. Her hands were hot, and her head felt a little heavy, but Delita's wound looked like it had already healed a little. She brushed the sweat from her forehead.

"I'm not going with you," she said.

Delita's eyes flickered towards her. She met his gaze steadily.

"And where do you think you can go?" he asked. "Where Louveria can't reach you?"

"Lionel Castle," she said at once.

Delita blinked. "What?"

"I met the Cardinal many years ago," Ovelia said. "And I know his reputation. I do not think he will send me away, and I do not think anyone will risk war with Lionel—or the Church."

Delita shot Wiegraf a quizzical look. Wiegraf shrugged, and Delita swiveled back to face her. "Your Highness-" he began.

"We've been over this, haven't we?" Ovelia asked drily.

Delita nodded slowly. "Ovelia," he said. "What makes you think the Church will risk itself for you?"

"I'm not asking the Church," Ovelia said. "I'm asking the Cardinal. Not to back my claim to the throne, but to protect me from those who would see me killed. Do you really think he'll reject me?"

In truth, Ovelia didn't know either. It had been years since she'd met the Cardinal in passing as a Lionel Monastery near Goug—she'd been little more than a child—but he had a reputation for honor. He was one of the most popular members of the Church: only Bishop Bremondt rivaled him. She'd found him warm, genial, and kind when she'd met him, and he head a fearsome reputation: before he'd been a Cardinal, he had led the Gryphon Knights during the 50 Years' War.

But of course, she'd met him before the attack on Lionel Castle, and the death of his wife and child. What if the years had soured him? What if he simply did not feel like risking his neck for the sake of a powerless princess?

She kept her fears and doubts to herself, and stared levelly back at Delita. Delita shook his head slowly. "Let us imagine you are right," he said. "Let us imagine the Cardinal will grant you asylum. You haven't solved your problem. You've just delayed the inevitable."

Ovelia cocked an eyebrow. "Now you sound like Gaffgarion."

Delita winced. "You've a sharp tongue, princess."

"And you've blunt fists, Delita."

Delita winced again. Agrias' eyes flashed. "What does that mean?" Agrias growled.

Ovelia did not answer. She leaned away from her guards and from her former captor. She searched the faces around her—Delita, guilty and uncertain; Agrias, livid and suspicious; Alicia and Lavian, slumped against each other, their bruises and scrapes faded; Wiegraf, his arms folded across his chest; Radia watching Wiegraf nervously; Ramza, staring at Delita's back with naked pain upon his face.

"Maybe you're right," she said. "Maybe it's inevitable. Maybe I'm better off with you and your allies." She stood up, felt her knees trembling with tiredness but would not let herself waver or wobble. She forced her inner calm upon her face, her body; she wanted to regal, a Princess worth following.

"But I have been treated as a pawn for far too long," she said. "So long they think I can be disposed of as they please. If I ally with you, it will be _my_ choice."

Agrias rose from her place upon the ground: after a moment, Alicia and Lavian did the same. They moved to Ovelia's side, and she felt stronger at having them near.

"I am going to the Cardinal," Ovelia said. "Do you intend to stop me?"

Delita was looking up at her from his place upon the ground. His eyes were wide, his jaw a little slack. Did he look, just a little, like he admired her?

"Of course not," he said. He stood up slowly, rolling his head upon his neck, shifting his injured arm a little and wincing at its reluctant movements. "Our first and foremost goal was to see you safe. What matter where where you go, so long as you are alive?"

Behind him, a strange look spasmed across Ramza's face. Delita's eyes flickered towards Ramza, then back to Ovelia. "We will meet again, Ovelia." Ovelia nodded, unsure what to say. Delita turned away . "Wiegraf. I think it's time for us to go."

Wiegraf pursed his lips and nodded. "Returning empty-handed," he grunted, patting the side of Boco's neck. "That'll go over well."

"I don't think anyone expected so many Hokuten," Delita said. "Or...well." He gestured vaguely. "Any of it."

Wiegraf snorted. "Suppose you're right." He shot Radia and Ramza a measuring look. "You're welcome to join us. Both of you."

Ramza's head jerked towards Radia. Her eyes widened for a moment, then slowly returned to their normal size. She studied Wiegraf for a long time.

"I can't," she said. "I'm..." She gestured. "It's the job we were hired to do."

Wiegraf's eyebrows arched. "It's not," he said.

"It is," Radia said. "Whatever my father thought. And it's not done."

Wiegraf snorted again and shook his head. "We fought the Crown," he murmured. "And now we fight to keep her safe."

"We never fought the Crown," Radia said. "We fought for Ivalice."

Wiegraf smiled, but his eyes looked terribly sad. "For Ivalice," he repeated wistfully.

"I haven't been," Radia said. "Not the last few years. I'd like to get back to it."

Wiegraf nodded slowly. "I believe my cause serves Ivalice," he said. "But I would be remiss if asked you to betray your conscience."

His smiled reached his eyes, then. Radia smiled in turn.

"What about you, Beoulve?" Wiegraf asked.

Ramza hesitated. He shook his head. "I...I don't think so."

Ramza couldn't see it, since he was looking at Wiegraf, but for a moment there was naked pain on Delita's face. Then it was gone, and he looked calm and sure once more. "Be safe, your Higness," he said. "I hope we can work together, the next time we meet."

He sketched an awkward bow to Ovelia, than twisted his hips so the bow somehow encompassed her guards, as well. Then he stood up and shuffled towards Wiegraf, who had Boco's reins firmly in his hands. They started on the northern path—the one that wound its way into the mountains.

"Delita!" Ramza cried, stepping forwards. Delita and Wiegraf stopped: Delita cocked his head back across his wounded shoulder. "How did you..." Ramza shook his head. "Both of you, I..." He took a deep breath. "It's good to see you. I...I'm glad you're alive."

Wiegraf chuckled. Delita looked away from Ramza, back up the mountain road. Or...no, that wasn't right, was it? Ovelia followed his gaze and found he was looking up into the sky, where an osprey was turning in lazy circles far above, a winged shadow outlined in sunlight. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ramza lift his head as well, and trace the bird's path through the sky.

"I didn't know," Delita said.

Ovelia and Ramza both looked back towards him. He was still staring pointedly at the sky. "I thought...after Zeakden...after Teta..." He turned around to face Ramza head-on. "I didn't know. I'm...I'm glad you're..."

He trailed off. Delita stared at Ramza; Ramza stared at Delita.

Silence then. Ramza studied Delita's face, and Delita could not quite meet his gaze.

"No more Tetas?" Ramza said. "No more Miludas?"

Radia started, staring between Ramza, Delita, and Wiegraf: Wiegraf turned as well, with that same sad-eyed smile.

"What better Ivalice could there be?" Delita asked.

"So...so why not with us?" Ramza asked.

Delita's mouth opened and his eyes widened. He looked towards Wiegraf, whose face was just as nakedly conflicted as his. Then he turned back to Ramza, and searched his face for a long time.

"I can't," Delita said at last.

"Then..." Ramza's eyes flickered around the, as though looking for the right words. He seemed crestfallen. "Then good luck, Delita."

Delita's face softened. It made him look awfully young. "You too, Ramza."

Wiegraf and Delita turned, and started their way up the mountain. Ramza and Radia remained at the foot of the trail, watching them until they were out of sight. Ovelia followed their gaze, her legs trembling, her bruises and scrapes aching, her exhausted magic a heavy weight upon her shoulders. Her eyes flickered the Lionesses around her—to Agrias, her face still puffy with bruises, and Alicia and Lavian, leaning heavily upon each other. All these people had fought for her sake, killed for her sake, been hurt for her sake. Because all those years playing the peaceful princess had still not been enough to buy her life meaning in Louveria's eyes.

And for a moment it was all too much: for a moment she felt knees shaking, her soul aching, tears burning in her eyes. Nanten after her head, Hokuten backing Louveria's assassins, kidnapped by a man who had taken an arrow for her sake, Alma's brother on her side, one of her hired guards gunning for her head while the others fought against him, what had been done to her guards (the way Katherine had stumbled with blood dripping to the ground, the way Alicia and Lavian and Agrias looked now), it was all so much, it was all _too_ much, and what if the Cardinal would not grant her asylum, what if she was marching into a trap and bringing her guards with her, what if all she was doing was delaying the inevitable and now...

She took a deep breath, and stood ramrod straight. She locked her knees, and gritted her teeth, and refused to let her tears fall. "Agrias," she said, and could hear the strain in her voice.

She looked towards her guard captain, found the older woman with a strange expression of her beaten face. It faded at once to its familiar attentive stare. "Your Highness?" she inquired.

"Simon...he's alright, isn't he?" She felt her skin crawling, felt a terrible dread roiling in the pit of her stomach, but she had to know.

Agrias nodded. "Injured, but alive. Moving on his own. He was...he was performing a service for the dead."

For Katherine and Ysabel. For women who'd already fallen because of her. But Simon lived.

Ovelia nodded, and raised her voice. "We've a long way to travel!" she shouted. "And enemies' upon our heels!" She turned on her heel and strode off at once. She heard the footsteps of her guards falling in behind her—the ones who'd survived, and the ones who'd betrayed their own master for her cause.

She had to be worthy of them. She had to lead them to safety. She had to prove to Delita that she'd meant what she said—that she would not be a pawn. Not anymore.


	41. Chapter 40: A Righteous Rest

(Well, I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! One more regular update to complete this part of the story, then we'll be taking a two-week break so I can make sure everything fits together in the coming chapters, as well as work on some other projects. But if you're looking for more of my writing while I'm gone, you can find it at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 40: A Righteous Rest**

 _All modern magical techniques are descended from our Ydoran forebearers. This is not to say magic is unknown beyond old Ydoran lands: after all, with proper training almost anyone can learn to use their field in small ways. However, many of these tricks could be dismissed as accidents or chance—a wound that heals a little more quickly, an arrow that misses a vital organ, a flame that takes a peculiar shape. To manifest more extraordinary magic requires, not only training, but also the proper runes and the proper materials. With runes, energy can be absorbed and channeled. Certain mystics of ancient tribes tattooed these signs upon their body, to call upon various magics at their will. The Ydorans experimented with these runes and found their power could be amplified—through certain alloys, metals, woods, gems, crystals, liquids, and even certain ceremonial and sacrificial rites. The Ydorans used creative combinations of these to achieve a level of military strength, technological innovation, and national prosperity that has not been equaled, even in the thousands of years that have passed since the Fall._

 _-Excerpt from "Introduction to Magical Theory," required reading for all attendants of the Royal Magic Academy in Gariland._

They collapsed together in the shadow of a wooded copse, barely able to keep their feet. Agrias was a stumbling zombie of a woman, with Alicia and Lavian only a little better off. Olivia had been visibly swaying for nearly half an hour, but would not answer Agrias' entreaties that they take a break. Only when the little copse drew close did she finally sink to the ground. Agrias helped her to her feet, and led her stumbling on, until they reached a little clearing that had seen travelers before—the cleared dirt ground and the old remains of a fire gave evidence to that.

"Your bedding for the Princess, Ramza?" Agrias said, in a low, lulling kind of voice. She had one arm wrapped protectively around the Princess, whose eyes were half-lidded, her body half-slumped.

Ramza tossed Agias the bag, and Agrias set to work at once lying the Princess down for the night. As she did, the rest of the company sluggishly gathered twigs and logs and leaves from the forest around them, and dragged them back, aching and groaning, to the center of their clearing. Alicia placed her scepter against the pile, but could not light it. She cursed and sank back.

"Flint?" Lavian asked hopefully.

Agrias shook her head grimly. "In my bag."

Everyone save Ramza had lost their bags in the clamor and chaos of the fight against the Hokuten, and Ramza had only kept his because he'd slung it around Boco's neck. He examined the women around him, all of whom seemed far more exhausted than he was even after Gaffgarion had drained him of a part of his strength. But of course, every one of them had used magic he didn't know. Besides the physical exhaustion of the past days—besides the frantic flight from Orbonne, the battle in the woods, the beatings and injuries the Lionesses had taken—they had used, over and over again, something he didn't fully understand.

"Can I try?" Ramza asked hesitantly.

Alicia gave him a wry look. "Did _you_ take four years' training at the Royal Magic Academy this afternoon?"

"No," Ramza said. "But I didn't use any magic, either."

Alicia and Lavian exchanged glances. Then Alicia shrugged, and handed him the scepter. "You know the rune for fire?" she asked.

Ramza shook his head. Alicia nodded, hunched forwards with a groan, and touched the tip of her finger to the green gem on the tip of the scepter. A rune dimly flickered into being—the same jagged one that had appeared when she'd been blasting fire at the archer in the mountains. Ramza studied it for a time, trying to memorize it as he'd memorized the runes he'd used during his time with the Hokuten. Then the rune flickered out, and Alicia slumped heavily against Lavian, who wobbled dangerously beneath her weight.

"Lucavi take me," Alicia sighed. "I'm tired."

Ramza lifted the scepter, and pointed it to the fire. He tried to picture the rune she'd prepared for him—the jagged rune with the delicate curves along its sides. A wavering image formed in the crystal tip, and Ramza started in surprise and almost dropped the scepter.

"Easy," Alicia mumbled. "Focus, and...picture the...f...fire..." She trailed off sleepily.

Ramza nodded, and pressed the scepter against their pile of branches, leaves, and logs. He pictured the rune first, saw its clumsy lines flicker into being in the crystal, and then tried to picture a fire. Still nothing happened. He cursed quietly, then tried again, this time trying to do what Radia had taught him—to imagine the field around his body, to imagine it moving according to his will, a shroud of fabric he could control like a hand, imagined it becoming fire. And not just any fire, but (and this appeared unbidden in his mind) the great scorching gouts at Zeakden. The fire he'd thought had killed Delita.

With a roar, fire exploded out of the end of the scepter. Everyone jumped, scrambling for their weapons. Ramza collapsed backwards, gasping at the pain in his chest, an ache at once sharp and heavy, like a pointed stone digging into his ribs. The woods were much brighter now, with little embers burning all around them, as their new fire crackled merrily.

"Saint above!" crowed Agrias. "What was that?"

"My fault," Ramza squeaked. "I'm sorry."

"Well," Alicia mumbled. "I'm awake now."

Ramza shook his head numbly. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean..."

"I know," Alicia chuckled. She reached out for her scepter, and he shoved it into her hands as though it were a snake that could bite him at any moment. She chuckled again. "Not your fault. Scepter's a...pretty fancy piece of magic. Refurbished Ydoran. My, uh...parents got it for me as a graduation gift."

Lavian snorted. "Your parents."

Ramza looked at the two women curiously. "You're both...you're so much better than any mages I've..." He shook his head.

Alicia shrugged. "I'm nothin' special," she said. "My folks just got a lotta gil to throw around, and I had good enough scores to get me into the Academy. You want a real prodigy, look at Lavian here."

It was hard to tell in the shifting light of the fire, but it seemed like Lavian was a little redder than usual. "I'm not," Lavian mumbled.

"Prodigy," Alicia said again. "Academy's been courtin' her since she was-" She broke off and looked guiltily at the ground. Rama looked in puzzlement between them.

"Since I was at the orphanage," Lavian finished. Ramza gave her a startled look, and she shrugged. "War ophan. There's a lot of us runnin' around."

Ramza supposed he was one of them. It was odd—he'd never thought of himself as one.

"Academy sends scouts around," Alicia continued. "Tests kids for natural aptitude. Old Ydoran practice—never know when the right blood's gonna make the right talent. S'how they found Elidibus."

"I'm not Elidibus," grunted Lavian.

"I didn't realize..." Ramza trailed off, unsure what he meant to say. "It's just...you seem to use magic much more _easily_." He looked at Alicia.

Alicia nodded. "Scepter," she said. "Ydoran craft, good materials, runes on demand. That, and my magic's easier than hers."

"That's not true," Lavian said softly.

"Is so," Alicia scoffed. "Breaking's always easier than making."

Ramza frowned. "How do you mean?"

Alicia nodded towards the fire he'd made. "Bet it hurt to get that blaze goin'," she said. "Even with my scepter." Ramza nodded, massaging his chest even while he realized that the pain he felt was deeper than that, something so fundamental to him that it was hard to distinguish from his thoughts.

"So imagine," she said. "Wood burns. That's easy. What if you had to rebuild the tree from the branch?"

Ramza shook his head. The idea made no sense to him. What would that even look like?

"It's not like that," Lavian said.

"Easier to break a wall than to build it," Alicia continued. "Me, I'm a hack, so I use my fancy tools and weave my big flashy spells. Parlor tricks." She jerked her head to Lavian. "This lady here? She keeps us alive. And she made that crook herself."

Ramza shot Lavian a surprised look. "That's your work?"

Lavian shook her head. "Needed a focus," she mumbled. "Had an old training tool none of the kids wanted, but it was good wood—kind that soaks up your field while you're holdin' it. I just..."

"Just made it something almost as cool as mine," Alicia said.

"Almost?!" Lavian squawked indignantly. Alicia gave her a rakish smirk.

Ramza studied the two of them. He'd talked to them so little—at Orbonne there had been mostly frosty silence in between the shift changes, and the grim march from Orbonne had been frostier still. Now they seemed so much warmer, so much more human.

"I'm glad you're both alright," Ramza said.

Lavian shrugged awkwardly. Alicia's smile vanished. "That's thanks to you," Alicia said. "He caught us off-guard."

"Gaffgarion?" Ramza asked.

Alicia nodded. "Came in shouting for peace, like there'd been some big misunderstanding. Got close, and..." She snapped her fingers. "Like all my blood got sucked out at once. So _weak_."

"Draining Blade," Lavian said, shaking her head. "Should've realized."

"You know it?" Ramza said.

"Read about it," Lavian said. "Big thing about healing...you gotta know what you'll heal. Burns. Breaks. Bolts. Ain't many Vampire Knights out there, but it takes a lot to fend'em off."

Ramza looked between the two women again. He remembered how easily Gaffgarion had overwhelmed his own field, and how little he'd been able to contribute to that last fight by the bridge.

"I know it's not the time," Ramza said. "But if you're willing to teach me magic, I'd like to learn."

The women looked at him and then at each other contemplatively. "If there's time," Lavian said.

"And not tonight," Alicia added.

"Not tonight," Ramza agreed. He helped them to their feet, and at their instruction led them to a tree at the edge of the clearing. He settled them against the trunk, then rose back on his creaking thighs and took a walk around the edge of the clearing. His head felt heavy upon his neck, and his body felt like it wasn't his, like it was something foreign and unknown, resisting him at every turn. But still, he forced himself to move. Every time he stopped to rest, his doubts and fears caught up with him.

Delita and Wiegraf were alive. And neither of them had wanted to join him. They had walked away, to places unknown, for reasons unknown. Why hadn't he gone after him? Why had he stayed her, besides this Princess he didn't know?

"Ramza," Radia said quietly.

Ramza looked over his shoulder, found Radia standing a little ways behind him. She reached out and caught his fingers in her calloused hand. Her thumb traced its way across his knuckles. "Come on," she said, and pulled him back the way he'd come. He stumbled after her until she found a place against a tree, the ground around it heavy with mulch. She pulled him down besides the trunk, folded his arms around her, and leaned back in his chest.

Ramza let her move him as she pleased, and tried to make himself as comfortable a pillow as was possible. He suspected he was failing miserably. It was hard enough to find a place to rest upon the mulchy ground, especially since they had lost much of their supplies in the frantic battle in the woods: he didn't see how he could make her feel comfortable.

But maybe physical comfort wasn't the thing. He hadn't started these cuddle sessions—she had done that after their second mission with Gaffgarion, terrified of what she'd done to the men and women rebelling against the baron, terrified that she'd become like her father. He had not know whether it was alright for him to do the same, but had fallen beside her on the edge of tears after two captives he'd taken had been executed by the bloodthirsty Fovoham viscount they'd been working for—boys no older than Ivan Mansel, no older than Delita and Ramza had been during the Corps, what possible purpose could their deaths serve, why...!

Ramza closed his eyes against the old guilt, and found Delita's face looking up at him from the darkness. He huddled closer to Radia, pulling her tight against his chest, feeling her breathe as he breathed.

"Hell of a day," she mumbled, so her breath tickled his ear.

He nodded fiercely, and found his throat too thick to speak. Delita, gone again, with Wiegraf at his side. And the past two years had assumed a grim cast. There had been few happy memories in those bleak fights and battles, but he had at least felt like they were his—his choices, his sins, his life lived as he chose. Now he found that he had been beneath his brother's shadow once again: that Gaffgarion had never allowed him another choice. And how much worse must Radia feel, having drawn her sword against her father.

"I'm sorry," Ramza murmured.

Radia shook her head so her soft hair brushed against his lips. "Not your fault."

"That's not what I-"

"I know." She shuddered: he felt it tremble down from her scalp to the soles of her feet as she shivered against him.

Silence again. Radia's warmth muffled all the other sensations—the oozing of the mud beneath his back, the aches in his abs, thighs, shoulders, and biceps. His mind wandered.

"I didn't know the Draining Blade could..." He shook his head. "What he did to their magic..."

Radia nodded. "It's all magic," she said. "Whatever form it takes. But he's got an edge, with that sword."

Ramza had seen that ruddy blade before. He knew it made Gaffgarion a better Vampire Knight, but he wasn't exactly sure how it worked. "Why?"

She shrugged. "One of his prizes," she said. "Got it for a job. Belonged to a whole order of Vampire Knights, back in the day."

"Ydoran?" Ramza asked.

Radia shook her head. "Kingdom they fought. Barrage or Baron or something. That's how they learned about the Draining Blade."

"I thought the Ydorans invented it," Ramza said.

"Dad said...he..." Radia drew a shuddering breath. "Ramza, what did I do?"

She was shaking again, shivering as though she were freezing, and Ramza didn't know what to say or do so instead he tightened his embrace around her, tried to imagine that he could somehow pass strength to her. Maybe he could—wasn't that the whole essence of the Draining Blade? Couldn't he just give her strength?

Whether he could or not, she stopped shaking. She took a deep breath, much steadier than the first. "I just..." She shook her head again. "I had to, right?"

Perhaps it was his reunion with Delita, or the revelation of Dycedarg behind the scenes, but Ramza's mind was filled with Zeakden. With Zalbaag, giving his grim order. With Argus, letting his arrows fly as he spewed his hate. "No you didn't," Ramza said.

Radia's head lifted up towards him, her eyes wide and hurt. Ramza felt a pang in his heart. "I didn't mean-" Ramza began frantically. "I meant I...I've seen people do worse. Choose the...the wrong thing. You know."

Radia rolled away from him, so he couldn't see her face. She pulled a little away from his body, though she didn't try to break his embrace. "I know."

Silence then. Ramza felt his skin prickling with shame. Fool Ramza. Everything she'd been through, and you put her through more.

No, that wasn't fair. He was at the end of his rope, too. He'd killed Hokuten today—men of his brothers' army. He'd met Delita, and Wiegraf. And he'd learned...learned that Gaffgarion...

"I'm so sorry," Radia whispered.

Ramza was jerked out of his reverie. He stared at the back of Radia's head. "What?"

"I brought you to my dad," Radia said. "I brought you home, I'm the reason your brother...it's my fault, I'm sorry Ramza, I'm-"

"By the Saint, Radia!" Ramza breathed, and pulled her back towards him without thinking. She curled back against him, and Ramza felt a moment's self-conscious panic—was he going too far? Was he doing the wrong thing? But then he brushed aside those concerns. He was too tired and felt too strange, when there was blood on his hands and Gaffgarion against them and Delita and Wiegraf alive and fighting for purposes unknown. And besides all that, he needed to make it clear that there was no way on earth he could blame her.

"You saved me Radia," he said. "Not just my life. After Zeakden, I...I didn't know who I was, or what I wanted. I...I still don't, but you've made it..."

Ramza trailed off. His words felt insufficient, for his feelings. And more than that, he didn't know what he wanted to say. How to explain, the bizarre confusion of gratitude, uncertainty, and betrayal? How to explain that he was questioning every mission and every kill of the last two years, looking for hints of Dycedarg's bloody hands on every deed? And how to explain that none of this made him regret leaving the Hokuten, and traveling with Radia?

Instead of trying to explain, he asked, "Are you okay?"

"How could I be?" she asked.

"So why..." He trailed off as she craned her head over her shoulder, giving him a wry look. Something in her green eyes made his face feel very hot.

"Wiegraf and Delita in front of us," she said. "You know why."

Of course. Wiegraf and Delita. The man who'd led the Death Corps in which she'd seen the echo of the Braves she loved. The man who's sister had been taken for no crime besides her relationship with the Beoulves. Both men they'd thought dead. But that raised its own question, didn't it?

"So why are we here?" Ramza asked. "Why did we..."

Radia sighed, and turned her head so she faced away from him again. "I don't know," she whispered. "I...my dad...I couldn't let him..."

Ramza nodded. "I get that."

"But your brother, Ramza!" she exclaimed. "He's...all this time, and it's my-

"It's not," Ramza said firmly. "It's just not, Rad."

She snorted. "Don't call me that."

Ramza privately agreed, but he liked the exasperated expression on her face. "I don't know," he said. "I think it kinda suits you, Rad."

"Stop it," she said, with mock sharpness.

Ramza chuckled. Radia chuckled, too, and rolled back to face him. He could feel her breath on his cheek.

"They're alive, Ramza," she said.

Ramza nodded. He knew he should be just as awed to see Wiegraf, but his head was too full of Delita—Delita, crouching in the snow with Teta's body in his arms; Delita, illuminated by lightning at the rear of the Monastery; Delita, shielding the Princess' body with his own; Delita, his head raised towards the clear blue sky as the Zirekile mountains loomed around them.

Alive. Alive and himself. So many questions still—who did he work for? How had he learned of the plot against the Princess? And what ally did he have at Bethla Garrison who could protect her from the Nanten? But those questions felt irrelevant, before the larger fact. His friend, alive in the world.

And Ramza couldn't have followed him.

He felt that with sudden certainty. It was a relief to have that doubt assuaged. There was something noble in it—in the protection of a Princess betrayed by her kingdom. And there was something personally satisfying in it, too—in protecting Alma's friend. And if he was completely honest, there was something a little petty, as well; the idea of frustrating Gaffgarion's clever plans and Dycedarg's schemes, of having been played by them for so long onto to turn upon them and throw all their careful plots into chaos.

With those doubts laid to rest, and the glow of satisfaction warming his heart, he felt his mind settling down into the sleepy muck. His eyelids fluttered closed.

"Kinda nice, isn't it?" Radia said. "Doin' what _we_ want to again."

Ramza nodded. "Like old times."

He felt something soft against his lips then, a gentle pressure that seemed to shoot lightning through his mind. His eyes snapped open, found Radia's face so close to his, her green eyes lazy with sleep and her soft lips pressed against his, and without thinking Ramza kissed her back, hard as he could, and for a moment everything was lost in a warm haze of limbs and lips and rushing blood, and he wanted her closer, wanted to touch every inch of her, and then there was a flash of self-conscious panic, because what if he was doing something wrong? Ramza had no idea what he was doing, he'd kissed one woman in his life and she was dead now, burned away beneath Zeakden with an arrow in her heart, and Ramza pulled away from Radia and shook his head. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might break his ribs.

"I can't," he said.

Radia's eyes were still soft, warm, and sleepy. They crinkled a little at the corners. "Okay," she said.

She huddled close, pressing her face against his chest. Ramza wrapped his arms tight around her. His heart raced, and his head swam, and he felt his consciousness draining away even as butterflies of anxiety stirred the placid surface of his sleepy thoughts. Delita, Wiegraf, Gaffgarion, Dycedarg, Radia...

But after days of hard marching and harder fighting, they had won. The Princess was safe. And with Delita Heiral alive in the world, anything felt possible.

He slept, and was surprised to find he was content.


	42. Chapter 41: Realists and Idealists

(I hope you've enjoyed the story so far! We'll be taking a three-week break so I can make sure everything fits together in the coming chapters, as well as work on some other projects. But if you're looking for more of my writing while I'm gone, you can find it at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 41: Realists and Idealists**

Even on a day as grey and miserable as this, the Beoulve Manor fair gleamed. Its exterior was polished stonework regularly interrupted by shining windows. On the corners of its bulky rectangular frame, delicate minarets ordained with Zodiac symbols reached towards the heavens. Part manse, part fortress, and taken together a compelling portrait of the combined military strength and diplomatic skill of the family that called it home.

Geoffrey Gaffgarion had been here a number of times before, but he still found the sight impressive, even as his practiced feet navigated the peculiar network of paths and bridges that led across the Ydoran aqueducts to the Manor's proper door. Under ordinary circumstances, he was sure there would be guards near at hand—a small squad of Hokuten was stationed here day and night, to make sure no bold rebels ever repeated the Death Corps' attempt on the Manor. But Dycedarg preferred to keep his conversations with Gaffgarion as private as was possible for a man of his stature. Not that Gaffgarion could blame him for his caution: even with their cover story in place, there was plenty that could go wrong.

As Gaffgarion neared the mahogany front doors, they burst open. Zalbaag Beoulve, wearing fine blue clothes with a Hokuten cloak about his shoulders, pounded down the stairs. His glower turned to a glare when his eyes found Gaffgarion.

"You!" he sneered, his goateed lip curling.

Gaffgarion smiled, though he felt a flicker of irritation. "Commander Beoulve," he said. "A pleasure to see you."

Zalbaag's nostrils flared beneath his prominent nose. "What scum likes you finds pleasant, I can't imagine. What in God's name are you doing here?"

The flicker of irritation was stronger this time, bordering on anger, but still Gaffgarion maintained his easy smile. "I have business with your brother."

Zalbaag shook his head. "Far be it from me to question my brother's wisdom," he sighed. "But I don't see what service someone like you could possibly offer us."

Gaffgarion knew it was unprofessional, but _that_ rankled. Gaffgarion had never made much fuss about the games of prestige and so-called honor that ruled the nobles, but he had spent a long time establishing his reputation as a man worth hiring. That this stuck-up, spoiled, ignorant cretin would call his talents into question? That offended him.

"Ah, perhaps you're right," conceded Gaffgarion, keeping his voice level. "Perhaps it's so much the kind of service as the quality?"

Zalbaag's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

Gaffgarion remembered the story Ramza had told him—of the fight at Zeakden, and the woman who had died. "Perhaps when there's hands that need dirtying, a man would rather have someone with the stones to do the job, and not lament the business?"

Zalbaag's face paled. "You-!" he began.

"That's enough, Zalbaag," Dycedarg said quietly, stepping out from the doorway. Zalbaag whirled to face his brother. "Please don't insult our guest."

"What would you need from such a man!" snapped Zalbaag.

Dycedarg shrugged. "You are talking to the last known witness to the abduction of Princess Ovelia."

Zalbaag seemed to stagger. "What?" he breathed.

"We have reason to believe there are traitors in the Lionsguard," Dycedarg said. "My spies reported word among the Nanten of highly-placed allies within the Lions' Den. After one of the Lionsguard was killed under suspicious circumstances in Lesalia, I hired Gaffgarion here to keep the Princess safe and to discover if any of her guards were part of the plot." He returned his gaze to Gaffgarion. "I trust you have managed to find _some_ information?"

Gaffgarion inclined his head. "I have, Lord Beoulve."

"If there is some plot to be discussed-" Zalbaag began.

"I will inform you of the relevant details," Dycedarg said. "But the Prince needs your help now. This Nanten attack in Araguay bodes ill for us all. If they've gotten so bold as to risk open battle..."

Zalbaag hesitated, then nodded. "Of course." He turned away and strode off, not sparing so much as a sidelong glance for Gaffgarion. Dycedarg waved Gaffgarion inside, and Gaffgarion followed obediently, closing the door behind him.

"He seems in a good mood," Gaffgarion said.

"He fears the war to come," Dycedarg said. "What madman wouldn't?"

"How mad such a man would be," Gaffgarion agreed, with a wry look at Dycedarg.

Dycedarg gave him a withering glance over one shoulder. "Do you believe you've earned the right to jest?" Dycedarg said. "Given the scale of your failures?"

Gaffgarion had been ready for this. The people who hired him were always looking for reasons to renege on the contract, to rob him of credit for his successes and blame him for failures entirely of their own making. It was a fine line to walk: Gaffgarion did not want to insult their pride or vanity, but he did not want his name slandered or his contracts dishonored. The trick usually lay in blending confidence, humility, impudence, and contriteness, adjusting as the man in question warranted. And Dycedarg was bound to be a particularly prickly customer right now.

He held his tongue until they stepped into the dusky interior of Dycedarg's study, dimly illuminated by runes running the length of the walls. Dycedarg slumped into a chair behind his desk and poured himself a glass of wine. Gaffgarion remained standing, at ease in his comfortable purple tunic and black trousers.

"Well?" Dycedarg grunted, sipping at his glass. "Have you a word to say in your defense?"

"Have you?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg stared at him. He set the wineglass down upon his table. "With one word," Dycedarg said slowly. "I could have your lands, titles, and fortune taken, and see you banished to the deepest, darkest dungeon I know. I will burn your cottage to ash before dropping your chained and broken body into Midnight's Deep."

The worst thing was Dycedarg's tone—completely casual, as though placing an order with his chef. No bluster, no theatrics: just slow, careful facts. Gaffgarion felt something squirming in his guts, but he kept his eyes on Dycedarg, and his own voice level. "And that will fix your mistakes?"

Dycedarg steepled his fingers beneath his chin and studied Gaffgarion for a long time. "What are you talking about?" he asked at last.

"You recall when I came here," Gaffgarion said. "With news that I had your brother in my care."

Dycedarg nodded. "I do."

"Quite a wreck he was," Gaffgarion said. "Wracked by guilt. Didn't trust anyone. Especially you."

"And?" Dycedarg said.

"Do you remember why?"

Dycedarg's eyes narrowed. "What kind of joke-"

"Zeakden, right?" Gaffgarion continued. "What happened to his friends. Teta and Delita. Dead while the Fort burned." Gaffgarion strode forwards, took Dycedarg's bottle in hands that did not shake in spite of his cold fear, poured himself a glass, and took a sip. All the while, he felt his skin prickling beneath Dycedarg's gaze.

"Your point?" Dycedarg said.

Gaffgarion took another sip and nodded. "I was hired to make sure things went as planned," Gaffgagrion said. "I was hired to deal with the unexpected. I can understand why you might see this as a failure on my part." He set his glass down and turned his attention fully to Dycedarg. "But I think you'll agree that there was little way for me to be ready when Delita Heiral and Wiegraf Folles appear during your attack and steal the Princess out from under us."

At the names, Dycedarg's eyes went wide. It would have been rather comical, if it weren't for the compounded failures still weighing heavy on Gaffgarion's shoulders, and the memories flashing through his mind—the feeling of the arrow slipping through his armor, and of his daughter's sword crashing against his own.

"Delita and...and Wiegraf?" breathed Dycedarg.

Gaffgarion nodded. "The same."

Dycedarg slowly closed his eyes and nodded. "I see. No, I...I don't suppose _anyone_ could have been ready for that." He gestured to one of the two chairs on the opposite side of the desk: Gaffgarion took a seat as Dycedarg downed his glass and started pouring himself another.

"Let's start from the beginning," Dycedarg said. "What exactly happened?"

So Gaffgarion told him—of all that happened since the last time he'd met with Dycedarg here in Igros,when Dycedarg had asked Gaffgarion to reinforce the Princess' guard and make sure the assassination went off without a hitch. Told him of the chaos of Orbonne Monastery, the hurried race to Dorter, the mobilizing of the members of the Dorter garrison that Dycedarg had told him could be trusted if the worst did come. Told him, at last, of the strange battle in the woods.

When he finished, Dycedarg was downing the last of his fifth glass of wine. He was slumped unsteadily in his chair. "Saint's sake," he hissed. "How..." He shook his head. "Of all the...Delita and _Wiegraf_?" He slapped his hand against the arm of his chair. "Again that miserable demagogue..."

"Ramza said he last saw him fighting Zalbaag?" Gaffgarion said, taking deep breaths to keep himself calm (it was for that reason he was only on his second glass of wine). He was trying to sort out the facts, trying to stay professional. A failure of this magnitude was something he hadn't experienced since the chaos of the 50 Years' War. And even then, he hadn't had to count his daughter among his enemies.

Dycedarg nodded. "Then the fort blew. Zalbaag was wounded. I thought Wiegraf might have survived, but I hadn't heard anything about him in years."

"This couldn't be the Corps, could it?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg hesitated, his fingers tapping on the rim of his empty glass. "I do not believe so," he said at last. "They didn't have the resources for this kind of operation...and if it was them, it would raise some interesting questions."

Gaffgarion cocked an eyebrow. "Such as?"

"I told Zal outside," Dycedarg said, jerking his head towards the hallway. "About the Lionsguard soldier who was found dead?" Gaffgarion nodded, and Dycedarg continued, "What I didn't tell him is it looks like she was trying to sell our information to someone. Some of our own spies in the capital reported rumors, and she was in the right place and the right time. Officially, we're trying to claim that she was being blackmailed, but..." He shook his head. "We think she found out about Ovelia, and was trying to stop us."

Gaffgarion frowned. "Why not kill her?"

"It's not all our own way," Dycedarg said. "Louveria may have disbanded the House of Lords, but she still has plenty of enemies with the means and influence to oppose her.

"That was a damn foolish decision," grunted Gaffgarion.

"You think I don't know that?" Dycedarg demanded, slamming his fist against the desk. "Public sentiment already paints her as a king-poisoning tyrant, and she disbands the House and arrests the God damned Council! Lucavi take me, you can't just bully your way to power!"

"She arrested the Council?" Gaffgarion said in some surprise. The disbanding of the House of Lords was the talk of every city in Ivalice—no ruler through the entirety of the 50 Years' War had done such a thing. But the Council arrested? That was an insult twice over—to the lands they ruled, and to the rest of the House, who had elected the Council to be their direct line between the House and the monarch. Disbanding the House was not unprecedented, but arresting the Council might just be.\

Dycedarg nodded glumly. "Two days ago," he said. "In response to calls for an investigation into...everything."

"What's that mean?" Gaffgarion asked.

"Everything," Dycedarg said again. "Annabel Iphis' movements, the state of the Princess' guard, the Nanten bodies at Orbonne..."

"The death of the King?" Gaffgarion suggested.

Dycedarg gave him a cold look. "Don't joke."

"Who's joking?" Gaffgarion said.

"You are," Dycedarg replied. "I hope."

"If I am," Gaffgarion said. "Who says _they_ are?" He shook his head. "I don't see why you couldn't co-opt the investigation."

"I would have liked to," Dycedarg grunted. "I could have pointed the way back towards Goltanna. But by the time I heard..."

"Why aren't you Lesalia, anyways?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg shrugged. "Larg usually is," Dycedarg said. "If he's going to be back here for any amount of time, I usually head there myself. Given the delicacy of our missions, it's usually best to have at least one of us on-site at any given time. Besides, the manor in Lesalia's in a rather bad state. Have been since before my father..." He trailed off, staring out the window. Gaffgarion followed his gaze: a curtain of night was drawn across the grounds of the Beoulve Manor, with only the faint glowing of the runes atop their lampposts to paint a picture of the gentle hills that surrounded the place and the glittering Ydoran aqueducts that ran through it.

"And Prince Larg couldn't stop her?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg gave him a withering look. "I don't think you and I are on in any position to critique someone for failing to keep their family from foolishness, hm?"

Gaffgarion grimaced as he saw Radia standing by the Falls once more and gave a begrudging notd. Dycedarg turned away from the large window and considered Gaffgarion for a moment.

"You're right," Dycedarg said. "You could not have expected Delita and Wiegraf. From that moment, our plan was well and truly fucked. But I confess, I'm curious. Did it unravel because your daughter turned against you? Or because you could not bring yourself to deal with her when she did?"

Gaffgarion studied Dycedarg, unable to make sense of the mind behind those blue eyes, or see any trace of emotion in his face. For all he'd drunk, for all he'd raged, he seemed remarkably composed. Dangerous, this man. And why was he posing this question? Did he hope to assign blame to Gaffgarion?

"Why do you want to know?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg shrugged. "We have the dilemma in common, no? My brother. Your daughter."

Gaffgarion stared at Dycedarg, and felt his calm cracking. It had been so hard to keep it together as he'd returned with the broken dregs of the squads that had ventured into Araguay. Few indeed were the survivors who did not nurse some wounds or babble about the terror their enemies: of broken weapons and bursts of scorching magic. Who had been in those woods? Why were they working with Wiegraf and Delita? What did they need with the Princess? And why had his daughter gone again why every time why could she not why-

Gaffgarion took a deep breath, but could not quell the tumbling anxious panic of his thoughts. He could not answer Dycedarg. How could he, when he did not know the answer himself?

"Your brother told me something," Gaffgarion said, instead of answering Dycedarg's question. "Just after he killed an Ordallian mercenary."

Dycedarg's head tilted quizzically. "What'd he tell you?"

"About what you did before," Gaffgarion said. "During the campaign against the Corps. You tried to talk him out of it, right? Out of trying to...to fight without killin'."

Dycedarg closed his eyes. "Did I?" he whispered.

"S'what he told me," Gaffgarion said. "And that when you couldn't, you gave him the stuff that _let him_ keep not killing."

Dycedarg's eyes were still closed. He nodded slowly. "I remember."

Dycedarg stayed silent for a while. Gaffgarion did not press him.

"I do not think I need to lecture you on the things this world requires of us if we hope to succeed," Dycedarg said at length.

"I believe I might know more of those things than you," Gaffgarion replied.

There was the ghost of a smile on Dycedarg's face. "Agree to disagree." He opened his eyes and refilled his wineglass, lifted it in front of his face and swilled it absently, as motes of light danced through its interior. "But I suppose I can see your point. Your were forced to learn the lesson by your circumstances, as was I. To do what needs doing leaves little room for sentiment."

"Very little," Gaffgarion agreed.

Dycedarg nodded. "Ramza is a bastard," Dycedarg said. "He has little chance of holding any real position. I saw no harm in letting him pursue his fantasies a little while longer."

And what harm those fantasies had wrought. He felt again the blow against his chest at Orbonne, and the cold pain of the arrow slipping through his ribs. True, he had stolen strength enough from the magics they'd hurled against him to heal the wound, but the shock of it—that after two years, Ramza could so easily turn his weapons upon him, and for what?

But then Gaffgarion thought of Radia's impassioned speech on the day she had left to join the Corps—how his every word and argument seemed to convince her further of the righteousness of her cause. He had wanted so badly for her to see how fruitless this rebellion would be—how he could not protect her from the hell that would follow, when the Crown finally crushed the insurgents. But she would not listen. She was too sure. She hate what he was too much, and saw such fanatic revolutionaries as antidote to his poison.

That wasn't the same as Ramza and his brothers. Gaffgarion and Ramza had not spoken much of his past since that day two years ago, when Ramza had told him everything, but Gaffgarion remembered well that conversation. The betrayal in his voice when he thought of the monstrous things his brother had done bespoke an admiration that had been sullied by their deeds. After all, you can't be betrayed by someone you never trusted.

Or was it the same? Had Radia felt betrayed? Had Ramza?

"So why did you hire me?" Gaffgarion said, papering over his fears as best he could.

"I didn't," Dycedarg said.

Gaffgarion cocked an eyebrow. "Is that how you remember our conversation?"

"I didn't hire you," Dycedarg insisted. "I simply asked you to take him under your wing, in exchange for some promising leads on new jobs."

"Of course," grunted Dycedarg. "The bartender didn't get me drunk, he just sold me the booze."

Dycedarg shrugged. "Much good it did."

"He kills people now!" Gaffgarion objected. "He tried to kill me!"

"He kills Hokuten soldiers," Dycedarg said. "Which could've been useful, but..."

"Useful how?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg sighed. "It was a fool's hope," he admitted. "But it informed my decision to hire you. If Ramza was present when the Princess was martyred...well, he could be a useful tool if we kept the Nanten intact after Goltanna falls. A sort of reform-minded commander, you see?"

Gaffgarion guffawed. "You don't think small, do you?"

"To do so is a waste of my time and talents," Dycedarg said. "Now, though...well, perhaps he can still be brought back into the fold."

Gaffgarion looked at Dycedarg in disbelief. "You still think he'll come back?"

Dycedarg shrugged. "Where else can he go?"

"He's on the run with a Princess you just tried to assassinate."

Another ghost of a smile on Dycedarg's face. "I think you'll fine he's on the run with a Princess implicated in a plot to overthrow our Queen."

Gaffgarion blinked. "What?"

"Oh, you didn't hear?" Dycedarg said. He took a sip of wine. "It's all very sinister. A loyal Lionsguard soldier discovered the plot, but was killed in the capital so she would not reveal it. But this brave soldier had left a letter detailing her suspicions, and when a Hokuten garrison went to question the Princess on behalf of the Queen, she and her guards killed their men and ran. Why, a certain mercenary I'd hired to protect the Princess against the royal plot even heard her plotting with her own guards."

Gaffgarion shook his head. "You're joking."

Dycedarg shrugged. "No one will harbor a rogue princess with no allies," Dycedarg said. "If this is a Nanten plot, it means war...and a war where public sentiment will be against the Nanten."

"And what about the Nanten bodies at Orbonne?" Gaffgarion asked.

"You mean the men who tried to kill you, to stop you bringing word of the plot?"

Gaffgarion pursed his lips. "How do you already-"

"The necessities of my position, Geoffrey," Dycedarg said. "I would think you of all people would understand."

Gaffgarion chuckled and shook his head. "And here I pride myself on being prepared."

Dycedarg snorted in turn. Gaffgarion pondered all he'd seen and heard these last few days, and how it jibed with the story Dycedarg was telling now.

"Do you...do you actually think Goltanna is behind this?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg set his glass back down on the table, intertwined his fingers beneath his chin, and studied Gaffgarion. "You fought for the Haruten, Geoffrey," Dycedarg said. "I'd think you would know that Goltanna's not much for politics."

"It doesn't seem to have slowed him down much," Gaffgarion replied.

"Why would it?" Dycedarg asked. "Command of the Nanten; the support of Marquis Elmdor and the Thundergod: Zeltennia and all its lands, and Bethla Garrison to boot. He never needed to be particularly inventive: he just needed to be patient enough to protect his power."

"And this is the man you want to go to war with?" Gaffgarion said incredulously.

Dycedarg shrugged. "This is the man I _must_ go to war with," he said. "His claim-by-blood is nearly as strong as Orinus'. I had _hoped_ to turn public opinion so far against him that he wouldn't dream of making such a claim, but the Queen has made that somewhat more difficult."

"But you don't think Goltanna has taken the Princess," Gaffgarion said.

"If he had, we'd know by now," Dycedarg said. "They were riding for Bethla, weren't they?"

Gaffgarion nodded. Dycedarg rubbed absently at his chin. "Odds are it's not Barinten," Dycedarg grunted. "Wrong play for him, and wrong direction to take her. Cid wouldn't dirty his hands with business like this, and the Marquis has even less a mind for politics than Goltanna does..."

"What about the Chancellor?" Gaffgarion asked.

Dycedarg snorted. "The day I have to worry about Chancellor Glevanne I may as well worry about Ajora's Judgment coming again."

"Why's that?" Gaffgarion said, examining Dycedarg.

Dycedarg shrugged carelessly. "The Chancellor is politically savvy. He knows the cost of challenging us."

Gaffgarion idly wondered what that meant, but declined to ask. There was an awfully thin line between 'asking for necessary context' and 'asking for secrets that would get you killed at your employers' earliest convenience.' Gaffgarion had developed a knack for straddling that line.

After the silence had stretched a little, Dycedarg continued speaking, "I can't think of a noble with ties to Bethla Garrison who has the power and influence necessary to unravel our plan and act oso effectively against us. But that's good news, in its way. It must be an awfully short list, and the Beoulves have friends in many places. In the meantime, we've got patrols watching the Woods and our garrison in Zaland patrolling the mountains. We'll find them." He took another sip from his wineglass.

"So what do you want from me?" Gaffgarion asked.

"At this moment?" Dycedarg said. "Nothing."

Gaffgarion looked at Dycedarg in disbelief. Dycedarg shrugged again. "Really," Dycedarg said. "I can think of a few places to start—I have some friends at Bethla, Zeltennia, Zaland, even with the Baerd company in Lionel—but none who could possibly be responsible for this. I have to find someone who can point me in the right direction. When I do, I will need someone I can trust to handle the work that comes next."

Gaffgarion pursed his lips. His main goal in this meeting had been to avoid getting punished for a failure he didn't believe he bore any responsibility for. He had not expected his contract to be extended.

"And of course," Gaffgarion said thoughtfully. "It probably doesn't hurt to keep a soldier on board who's useful in the field and politically disposable to boot."

"No," Dycedarg agreed. "It doesn't."

Gaffgarion nodded. "We'll consider the half you paid full payment for the last job," he said.

"You've consider that you get to keep that half a mark of my respect for you and not push your luck," Dycedarg grunted.

Gaffgarion shrugged. "Further payment?"

"All expenses here in Igros," Dycedarg said. "With additional payment pending future jobs."

Gaffgarion nodded again. "Should I find a place?"

"I can hardly have you sleep here without raising more questions, can I?" Dycedarg said.

Gaffgarion nodded, and rose from his seat. He felt much more at ease than he had when this conversation had begun. Why not? He had kept his neck intact, walked away with the money he'd been paid, and could even look forward to a few days rest and relaxation, courtesy of the Beoulve coffers. So what if Ramza had turned against him? If _Radia_ had turned against him?

The thought caught in his mind, stung at him and would not be shaken. He saw Ramza's sword, felt his arrows, felt the phantom reverberations in his arm from where Radia had clashed her sword against his. He glowered into open air, then turned his attention back to Dycedarg. "If you find them," Gaffgarion said. "What do you intend to do about Ramza?

He locked eyes with Dycedarg. Dycedarg looked away almost at once, taking another sip from his glass. "I had really hoped..." he began, and shook his head. "I thought if he saw what the world looked like, he..."

"I thought he had," Gaffgarion said.

Dycedarg nodded. "If you see him again," Dycedarg said. "Talk to him. Tell him what we want. Make it clear he's welcome, if he steps aside."

"And if he doesn't?"

Dycedarg didn't answer for a long time. He stared at the glass in his hands, then drained it in one pull. "Then you know what you must do."

Could Gaffgarion do it? Could he kill the young man who'd come to him, in such pain and fear? Could he kill the young man who'd clung so stubbornly to the vestiges of his ideals, even through all the bloody jobs they'd worked? Could he kill the young man who'd tried to kill him?

"Your own brother," Gaffgarion mused, shaking his head to dispel his own doubts. "You're something else, Lord Beoulve."

Dycedarg's eyebrows arched. "What about you, Gaffgarion?" he asked. "What will you do if your daughter stays by the Princess' side?""

Again, Radia's face flashed through his mind, the way she'd looked standing tall and confident upon the edge of the stone rise, the way her sword had swung to catch his own. Two years since the Corps, and still she hadn't changed. Still she plunged into fool causes for the sake of fool principles. Still she-

He realized he was letting his grief and doubt show upon his face—he could see the answering surprise and doubt in Dycedarg's cold eyes—always tried to mask his emotions, and then realized it was too late. Instead, he smiled ruefully. "Would you believe any answer I gave you?"

Dycedarg chuckled. Gaffgarion felt his heart aching in his chest, and let a little of that feeling show upon his face. Then his eyes hardened, as did his heart. "They have both had their ideals broken before," Gaffgarion said. "I see no reason why we can't do it again."

Dycedarg nodded. Gaffgarion nodded back. Then he turned, and headed for the door.


	43. Chapter 42: Righteous Again

(Thanks for waiting, everyone! I'm busy as all hell in the weeks to come, but I think I can handle once-a-week for awhile yet. If you're feeling starved for content, there's plenty more at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 42: Righteous Again**

 _…I think no part of Ivalice has so fascinating a history as Lionel. Nominally free but historically controlled by prominent officials of the Glabados Church: home to some of the earliest movements for objective, rational thinking, and some of the most vicious and militant reprisals on those who dared to voice their unorthodox views. Such paradox is emphasized by the presence of Fort Zaland on its far northern border. In theory, the mighty walls of one of the largest Ydoran fort cities belong to Lionel: in practice, it is practically a city-state unto itself, its vicious ruling class of ascendant merchants, ancient nobles, and church officials feuding amongst themselves and courting support among the Hokuten, Nanten, and Gryphon Knights, among others. The rich and powerful hide behind its walls and play their political games, growing fat off the taxes they take from the trade caravans heading north and south: the poor shelter in the messy slums that abut the walls, and hope for scraps. As always, the conflict punishes most the people who have the least to gain._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "A Sociological, Economic, and Political Encyclopedia of the Cities of Ivalice"_

The outskirts of Fort Zaland made Ramza's skin crawl.

It had been impressive enough from far away—when they'd wound their way around a mountain path and seen the city splayed out in front of them, lights gleaming within the walls, upon them, and throughout the sprawl of buildings that surrounded the tall walls. It had looked rather splendid that way, its walls and slums both built right up against the steep mountains around them.

But the closer they got, the worse it looked, and the worse it smelled. The ripe shit-and-piss stink Ramza had come to know so well in Dorter. And here, sheltering in a broken wooden chapel on the far outskirts of the slums, the smell was even stronger.

"This is no place for a Princess," huffed Agrias.

"It's fine, Captain," Ovelia said, running a hand through her greasy hair. "I think any place above the ground is good for me."

"Your Highness!" Agrias squawked in outrage, and Ovelia gave her a wry grin.

Ramza smiled from his place in the corner of the room. The sunken, dusty, grungy chapel admitted pale shafts of wan sunlight through its shattered windows and broken ceiling, so everyone seemed a little dampened and dour. On Agrias, dour already, it made her look almost comically severe.

"What are you smiling about?" scowled Alicia. "Focus!"

Ramza jerked back to attention. He was hunched upon the ground with a stick in his hand, tracing runes in the dirt. Alicia stood over him, critiquing his technique with every rune he sketched ("Sloppy! Too straight! Too wobbly! You try and cast with that and it'll blow your hand off!"). There was little else he could do: he'd lost all his weapons during the battle at the bridge, so he could not scout, as Lavian and Radia were doing right now.

He kept sketching: Alicia kept yelling. At last Ovelia said, "Oh, leave off, Alicia. You're making my ears ache."

Alicia looked stricken. "I am sorry, your Highness."

"You don't need to be sorry," Ovelia said. "Just scold him more quietly."

Ramza gave her a wry look. "Truly your benediction knows no bounds, your Highness."

"I am the very model of royal charity," Ovelia agreed, with a slight smile.

There was a knock upon the door—three knocks in quick succession, a short pause, then two knocks more widely spaced. Razma rose to his feet and took his place in the corner beside the door, in case it should be someone else who had wrested the secret of the knock from Radia or Lavian: Agrias opened the door with sword in hand.

"What news?" Agrias asked, and Ramza relaxed and stepped into the open as Radia and Lavian hurried through, their faces and figured obscured by heavy brown raincloaks. Healers were always needed in major cities, so Lavian had been able to find work and get them information. Radia traveled as her bodyguard, and made quiet inquiries while she worked.

"Soldiers everywhere," Radia said. "Especially Hokuten." She shot Ramza a look, and Ramza looked away guiltily. He hadn't know what to say to Radia since the night in the clearing.

"Damn," whispered Agrias. "Still claiming the Princess plotted against the Queen?"

"That's the notion," Radia said.

"They don't hold the gate," Lavian continued. "But they're everywhere in the city, stopping travelers at random. Nanten, too. Goltanna's trying to clear his name, I guess."

"They're not the only ones," Radia added. "Mercenaries, bounty hunters, some guys I don't know..."

"All looking for me?" Ovelia asked.

"I'm not sure," Radia said. "But even the ones that aren't probably wouldn't mind the payday that comes with bringing you in."

"We could double back," Alicia suggested. "Find a route through the mountains."

"You think they won't have patrols guarding those, too?" grunted Agrias.

"What if we hijack a cart?" Radia suggested. "We could hide her-"

The planning went on. Radia's idea seemed best to Ramza, but it carried its own risks—after all, the soldiers were stopping travelers at random. Eventually they tired of arguing and ate the fruit and dried meat Lavian had brought back from the market. They talked a little, but all were clearly lost in their own thoughts. How to get past Zaland, when it swarmed with danger?

"Why not keep patrols in the slums?" Ramza asked.

"Too many places for us to hide," Radia said. "Easier to watch the roads through Zaland. We might've blown the bridge, but that doesn't give us anywhere to go."

"Except to Bethla," Lavian said.

"If we go to the Garrison," Ovelia said coldly. "Goltanna will give my head to Louveria as a gift to assure her of his good intentions. I would rather keep my head right where it is."

"Just gotta make things hard for the rest of us," Radia sighed.

"I know," Ovelia said. "My continued survival is a great inconvenience."

"Well, as long as you're sorry," Radia said.

Ovelia giggled. Radia grinned.

The afternoon droned on, and their tired company began to drift off. They kept a semi-regular watch—at least one of the group had to stay awake, whatever the hour— so Ramza sat outside with his back propped against the ruined wall as the warm summer sun baked down on him from on high. No idea what they were doing, but they had food and a safe place to lay their heads, and he felt more righteous than he had since before Teta...

The thought hurt, as it always did, but it wasn't quite as painful. Teta might be dead, but Delita was alive, and that made a difference. But thoughts of Teta led to thoughts of the orchard at Lesalia, and then to another kiss just a few tights ago. His skin tingled with the memory of it.

 _crack_

Ramza jolted upright, head swiveling from side to side. The sound had not been loud—in point of fact it had been tinny with distance, echoing off the decrepit walls around him—but it had carried an abrupt, walloping force. It sounded a little like the bursting of gunpowder at Zeakden, but smaller, more focused. He frowned.

 _crack_

There it was again! Louder, and closer to. Unlike anything he'd ever heard. And was it his imagination, or were there voices, too? Shouts of anger and pain?

Ramza ducked inside, and found only Agrias awake. Still she wore her stinking blue armor, as though battle might break out at any moment. Maybe she was right.

"Something's happening," Ramza said.

Agrias tensed. "What?"

"I don't know," Ramza answered. "Lotta noise. I'm going to check it out."

Agrias shook her head. "You have no weapon."

"I'll be fine," Ramza said.

Agrias frowned, but nodded reluctantly. "Be careful."

Ramza nodded and ducked back out. The shouts were louder now, and as Ramza crouched low and hurried as quickly as he dared he heard another of those strange _cracks_. This one was followed by a scream of pain. Some kind of magic, then?

There were a few other shapes visible in ruined buildings, but they kept their distance. They were on the very outskirts of the slums that surrounded Fort Zaland. As far as Ramza could do, everyone here had something to fear—otherwise they'd be closer to the walls of the city proper, where money and opportunities were. They gave him a wide berth.

The closer Ramza got to the source of the commotion, the easier it was to make out what was being said.

"Flambard? Flambard!"

"He's gone, Ilos."

"I'm gonna kill him!"

"No you ain't. Boss needs him alive."

Ramza slowed his steps to make sure he made no noise, and drew closer. He hugged the wall of an squat stone building. Based on the scuffling and shouts on the other side, he'd found who he was looking for.

"Nowhere to go, Mustadio," growled a deep, rumbling voice, with a faint trace of a lilting Lionel accent. "Put down the gun."

"How about I put a bullet in you first?" asked a young, shaking voice, high and cracking with anxiety, its own Lionel accent so thick it took Ramza a moment to understand the words.

"You're welcome to," grunted the deep voice. "Not sure what good it'll do ya. Won't have time to reload before we catch ya."

Ramza crept along the corner and down an alley between the squat stone building and a taller, rickety wooden structure. Part of the stone building had crumbled, leaving a convenient swell of fallen stones for Ramza to crouch behind. He risked a quick peek, and found that the alley led into something of an impromptu courtyard between other buildings. Within that courtyard, several men were fanned out, surrounding a young man standing with his back pressed again a stone wall that cut across the middle of the courtyard.

The young man was filthy—his grimy orange overalls were thick with mud and offal, as were the heavy leather gloves he wore on his hands. His round tan face was smeared with dirt, as was his thick, unruly blonde hair, tied back in a clumsy ponytail. In one gloved hand he clutched an odd angular metal crescent, with the part in his hand thicker than the long cylinder he aimed at the men around him. His other hand fingered at his belt, which held several small cylindrical pouches. But his blue eyes were bright with fury, and he seemed utterly unafraid of the men surrounding him.

"We'll see," the young man said—Mustadio, if Ramza guessed right.

The man standing directly in front of him—tall and broad of chest, with his hair tied back under a green scarf—sighed. One hand rubbed his chin, while the other fingered the hilt of one of the two daggers on his felt. He looked down the line. Including the man with the green scarf, there were five in total, all with daggers and swords on their belts. A sixth man lay face-down in the dirt just behind them, a bow just out of reach of his outstretched fingers, a quiver on his back.

"Be reasonable, Mustadio," grunted the man with the green scarf and the rumbling voice. "We have your father. Ludvich is a reasonable man. You give us the stone, and you can both walk away."

"I'm sure he'll be happy to let us go, knowing what we know," Mustadio sneered. "So let me make this clear. If anyone touches my father, I'll drop the stone in the fucking ocean."

The man with the green scarf tutted and shook his head. The men around him inched closer. Mustadio kept sweeping his gun left and right, but did not deter them. Soon, they'd be in a position to jump him.

And the way the young man spoke—the steadiness of the strange object in his hand, the fire in his blue eyes, and the rage in his voice when he spoke of his father—touched something in Ramza, and stirred up an answering fire. Whoever these men were, whatever there conflict with Mustadio, they threatened his father. This was a man in need of help.

But hadn't Argus been the same, when Ramza, Delita, and Beowulf had saved him upon the Plains?

The pang of guilt steadied Ramza: without thinking, he stood at once and stepped out of concecalment. He hated what Argus had done, but he would not stay his hand just because of the risks it entailed. That was Gaffgarion's way, and for the first time in two years, Ramza was free of that man's poison.

"I think this is my cue, Mustadio!" Ramza called.

Every man save the one in the green scarf whirled around to face Ramza, weapons raised. The back of the man in the green scarf tensed, and Mustadio's blue eyes were wide with confusion. No, that wasn't good: this would only work if the men believed them.

"Did they hurt you, friend?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio blinked, and his face settled back into a look of recognition. "They tried."

Ramza shook his head. "More the fools they."

"Keep eyes on him," growled the man in the green scarf, and as two of the men jerked their gazes back to Mustadio, the man in the green scarf turned to face Ramza. He had a narrow face with darting, angry eyes. "Who the fuck are you?"

"One of his friends," Ramza said, nodding to Mustadio.

"Boy doesn't have friends," grunted the man in the green scarf.

"Then I guess I'm a figment of your imagination." Ramza smiled, though his heart was pounding in his chest. He didn't know where he was getting these lies. They came at the speed of thought, without him trying to imagine them. He sounded good, didn't he?

"Some friend," chuckled the man, as each hand found the hilt of a dagger at his belt. "Not even a knife on your belt."

Yes, Ramza felt naked—no sword at his hip, no quiver on his back. But he smiled as though his guts weren't coated in ice, and said, "Strange, isn't it? An unarmed man walking into an ambush. Who would be so foolish? After all, here you gentlemen sit, surrounding my friend, leaving him nowhere to run. No one outside this courtyard can see what you're going to do." Ramza paused thoughtfully, looking around the buildings, and added, "Of course, you can't see if anyone's waiting for you, either."

The man with the green scarf hesitated. His eyes flickered around the courtyard. For the first time he seemed to realize that he was just as boxed in as Mustadio was, if there were any forces beyond the buildings that surrounded them. Ramza managed a slight smile, though he felt his bowels shaking themselves loose with nervousness.

"So here's the deal," Ramza said. "You walk away, right now. I'll call off my friends, and you can go back to your boss and tell him you ran into trouble."

The man with the green scarf searched the buildings around him. There were murmurs and nervous glances from the other men. Mustadio kept his gun level, but his eyes were feverish with relief.

Finally, the man with the green scarf looked back to Ramza. His face had settled into a stony expression. "What's he paying you?"

Ramza's eyebrows arched. "Wouldn't be much of a friend if he had to pay me, would he?"

The man in the green scarf nodded. "S'pose not. Awfully brave, takin' on our boss just 'cause your friend pissed him off."

Ramza shook his head. "Nothing brave about it. Strength in numbers."

"Must be quite a friendship," said the man. "Friendship like that, you probably know everything he does."

"What I need to know," Ramza said coolly, though his neck prickled at the sense of a danger he couldn't name.

"Like the name of our boss?" the man asked.

"Ludvich," Ramza said at once.

"Ludvich _who_?" asked the man in the green scarf.

Ramza felt a bolt of lightning hit his heart and crackled out to his limbs. Behind the man in the green scarf, Mustadio's eyes widened.

Everyone moved at once. The man in the green scarf had his daggers out and drawn in an instant, while Ramza leapt towards the fallen man and his discarded bow. Mustadio's strange object snapped towards the man with the green scarf, and with a thunderous _crack_ and a harsh smell that reminded Ramza far too much of Zeakden, the man bowled over as though struck from behind.

Ramza rolled next to the bow, rose in a crouch with the bow in hand. He grabbed for the quiver, then heard the pounding of feet in the dirt behind him. He twisted, just in time: a sword sliced down into the ground where he'd been, cutting through the quiver and the corpse. Arrows spilled across the ground as blood squirted out of the fresh wound. Ramza stumbled to his feet, weaving between his attacker's slashes. He twisted, somersaulted, came up with an arrow in hand, loosed it from inches away. The swordsman ducked, and the arrow soared high overhead.

Behind Ramza were further shouts and curses, scuffling and the exchange of blows. Ramza circled away, his eyes flickering between the swordsman stalking him and Mustadio, who had clambered halfway up the wall he'd been pinned against. One man clung stubbornly to his leg, while another lay on the ground, clutching at his broken noise as blood oozed between his fingers.

"Sons of bitches," growled the deep voice of the man with the green scarf. Ramza glanced over his shoulder and found the man wobbling unsteadily at his feet, sweat standing out against his pale face. Blood dripped down his back and down into the dirt. He had one dagger in his hand. The other lay at his feet.

Ramza lunged towards him, swung the bow and cracked it against the man's head. As he crumpled, Ramza dropped the bow and grabbed for the daggers. He snatched up the one by his feet, but dazed as he was the man with the green scarf fought him for the other. Ramza plunged the stolen dagger into his chest, and the man in the green scarf gave a rattling curse.

Again, footsteps behind him: Ramza jumped away, tried to pull the dagger with him but found it stuck fast in the man's chest. The swordsman lunged towards him, then stopped, standing defensively over his fallen comrade. Another man with a bastard sword was advancing steadily on Ramza, while the man with the broken nose had retaken his feet and rejoined the struggle to drag Mustadio off the wall.

Hadn't Ramza pushed his luck far enough? Wouldn't it be better to run?

But even unarmed and facing two dangerous swordsman, Rama felt like he was crackling with energy, more confident than he'd been since those days when he had sworn he would not kill, and won battle after battle against the Death Corps with his promise intact. He felt young, strong, and confident. He felt sure of himself. He did not want to run. He wanted to win.

He shifted into a defensive position, hands raised to guard his face and chest, one leg in front of the other. The man with the bastard sword drew closer, as the other man stooped to try and treat the wounds of the man with the green scarf. Barely any room to maneuver.

Ramza lunged towards the man with the bastard sword. The swordsman's eyes flashed wide, and he raised his sword for a killing blow. Ramza threw up his hands, complete with his leather greaves—those same greaves he'd worn since his Academy days, that he'd crafted himself, with the extra weight of the metal concealed beneath—and caught the blade just beneath the crossguard. Before the swordsman had time to react, Ramza cracked his forehead against the man's face, felt little fissures of pain radiating out from impact as something snapped and squished against his skin.

The man screamed, and his grip slackened, and Ramza wrested the bastard sword away from the man, kicked him in the chest so he staggered backwards, and then slashed the tip of the blade across his chest. The man slumped to his knees.

With a roar of rage, the swordsman guarding the man in the green scarf lunged towards Ramza, who tightened his grip on his sword and swung in turn. A frenzy of clashing parries and repartees, Ramza's hands numb with the exertion, and the fury of his opponent was such that Ramza was driven back before him, barely able to interpose his too-large blade to protect himself from the attack. Foreign blood was dripping down his face—the blood of the man he'd headbutted, the blood of the man who was curled in a fetal position just behind his attacker.

A flicker of blue from the corner of Ramza's eye. Both he and his attacker whirled to face the source of the movement, and then with a concussive _whoomph_ of air his attacker was blasted off his feet, flew through the air and smashed back against the wall, falling in a broken heap next to Mustadio and his attackers.

Ramza stared at the blonde woman in the stinking blue armor. Agrias' eyes flickered around the courtyard.

"What's happening?" Agrias hissed.

"Drop your weapons!" someone shouted.

Ramza and Agrias looked back, found Mustadio in a headlock with a sword pressed against his throat. The man with the broken nose was holding him hostage: the other man stood in front of them, blade pointed towards Agrias and Ramza.

"Never mind," Agrias grunted, and took a threatening step towards Mustadio and his captors.

"No closer!" hissed the man with the broken nose.

"You're not gonna kill him," Ramza said—they'd made that damn clear while he was eavesdropping.

"Just because I can't kill him doesn't mean I can't hurt him," growled the man with the broken nose. He moved the sword away from Mustadio's neck, and placed it against Mustadio's wrist. The young man's blue eyes flashed wide with terror, and he squirmed in his captor's grasp.

Ramza didn't move. His eyes flickered around them—to the bodies at his feet, the green-scarfed man to the left and the man who had held the bastard sword just ahead. Agrias was here, but he didn't know what range her sword techniques had, and even if she could reach Mustadio and his captor, she might well hurt the young man as much as his assailant.

Ramza swallowed, and nodded. "Alright."

Agrias' head swiveled to glare at him. Ramza gave her a pleading stare. "Look around," he said. "What can we do?"

He gave a sweeping gesture that indicated the men holding Mustadio, and ended with a slight flourish towards the body of the man in the green scarf. Agrias' eyes flickered around them, and she nodded grimly.

"I see," she said.

Together both knelt, and laid their blades upon the ground. Then a moment later Ramza lunged towards the green-scarfed man, grabbed at the dagger in his dead hand and sent it flying towards Mustadio's captor. The handle bounced hard against the center of his head, and he fell away from Mustadio with a little scream. The man guarding him twisted to follow the path of the knife, and realized his mistake too late: by the time he turned, Agrias was already upon him, her sword cleaving through his chest.

Mustadio was yelling and struggling in the grasp of the man with the broken nose, and Ramza grabbed at the dagger still buried in the chest of the green-scarfed man, pulled it out as he broke into a sprint. Mustadio's hands were wrapped around the man's swordhand, struggling to keep the blade away, and then Ramza drove the dagger into the throat of the man with the broken nose. He gagged, gasped, gargled, and went still.

Ramza remained where he was for a moment, barely able to think or move. His chest was tight with exertion, and his arms heavy with the fighting of the last few minutes. His head felt it was tilting from side to side, a boat about to capsize, and the smell of everything—the blood, dirt, sweat, and shit—almost overwhelmed him. He stared around at all the men he'd fought and killed, listened to the last few wheezes and groans.

Mustadio rose from where he had fallen, gasping and massaging his neck. "You...you saved me!" he exclaimed.

"Apparently," Agrias said, with an accusing glance at Ramza.

"They were after him," Ramza said.

"Play hero on your own time," Agrias said. "We need to get moving."

"Wait!" Mustadio exclaimed. "Please, take me with you!"

"Absolutely not," Agrias said.

"These men are everywhere," Mustadio said. "They'll catch me eventually, and if they do-"

"We have already risked our lives to save yours," Agrias said. "It is the height of arrogance to ask more of us."

Mustadio's face fell, and he looked at the ground. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "But I have nowhere else to go."

"You said they had your father?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio nodded. "And they...I don't know what they'll do, if..."

"Agrias, please," Ramza said, turning his own beseeching eyes on Agrias.

Agrias regarded Mustadio and Ramza grimly. "As if we don't have enough trouble..." She closed her eyes, then nodded once. "Gather their weapons. We need to rearm."

"Thank you, my lady!" Mustadio shouted, falling to his knees, but Agrias hauled him to his feet at once.

"I am not your lady," she said. "And we do not have time for theatrics."

Mustadio nodded, and started scrabbling in the dirt, hefting the peculiar metal object with which he'd felled the green-scarfed man. Ramza followed suit, grabbing at daggers and swords and packs. Agrias stood over them, glowering.

"Thank you, Agrias," Ramza said softly. It might have been his imagination, but he thought he spied the faintest ghost of a smile on her face.


	44. Chapter 43: Good Deeds

(Thanks for reading! Just remember, there's plenty more of my writing at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 43: Good Deeds**

 _Never let anyone make light of your passion for the truth. They mock it because they fear it. Take Ludvich Baerd. You know him now as a minor footnote—a criminal kingpin who came to power in the interim between the 50 Years' War and the Lion War. But the people of medieval Lionel knew him as the philanthropic head of the Baerd Trading Company. It was scholars like you who realized how many orphans in his orphanages disappeared from the rosters only to reappear as slaves of every stripe. It was scholars like you who matched personal correspondence, private journals, and official records to map what ships carries what weapons and what drugs. Who saw the links between the murders of machinists in Warjilis and the sale of new weapons at lucrative prices. Who pulled back the shining surface to reveal the monstrous truth beneath._

 _There will be those who hate you for it. Those who would cling to the lie because it is so much more comforting than the truth. But denying the lion will not save you from its fangs. Only by facing the truth squarely can we hope to change the world._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Guest Lecture to the History Department of the Royal College of Lesalia"_

"Do I really have to keep this blindfold on?" grumbled Mustadio.

"For the last time, yes!" growled Agrias. "Is it not enough we're letting you hold your weapon?"

Mustadio fidgeted with the metal object in his lap. "A bow's not much good without arrows," he mumbled.

Mustadio was sitting in the sunken chapel, a band of torn cloth wrapped around his eyes. The others were fanned out around him. Agrias watched the young man warily. Radia, Alicia, and Lavian were examining both Mustadio's gear and the gear they'd taken from the dead men—weapons and food alike. From this close, Mustadio stank—he smelled like shit, piss, and a few other nasty odors that Ramza couldn't name. No one sat particularly close to him.

"These are you...arrows?" said Alicia, fingering one of the metal objects—a metal cylinder that tapered off at the end, narrowing into a point.

"Bullets," Mustadio said. "Please be careful. I have to make them myself."

"That's what this is for?" Lavian asked, holding up a mold.

Mustadio tapped his blindfold. "Depends on what _that_ is."

Lavian chuckled, and handed him the mold. He fingered it for a moment, and nodded. "Part of it, anyways," Mustadio said. "Then I have to secure a gunpowder cartridge, and..."

"So it's a gun," Ramza said.

Mustadio handed the mold back to Lavian. "A pistol, to be precise." He began to talk very quickly, his Lionel accent making his words flow into each other so it was hard to distinguish between the syllables (although it sounded very nice). "Bypasses some of the traditional limitations of firearms by making each bullet act essentially as a magic spell. See the runes?" He held up the barrel, and runes glowed along its length.

"This is Ydoran?" Alicia asked.

"No," Mustadio said, shaking his head. "Church takes any working Ydoran pieces. This is an Ydoran design, but I made it."

\ "You made that?" Radia said, evidently impressed.

Mustadio nodded, but he seemed less-than pleased. "That's why it doesn't work well," he mumbled. "If it were Ydoran make I might not even _need_ bullets. I could basically fire pre-loaded spells."

"That makes me nervous," grunted Alicia.

"Why?" asked Mustadio. "As it stands, it takes years of dedicated training to produce a mage of any quality. Guns like this mean soldiers could sling spells against the best of them.

"As someone who went through those years," Alicia said dryly. "I'm not particularly keen on someone just getting handed those spells. There's a reason it takes so long."

"Alicia," said Agrias, in a low, commanding voice.

"But that's elitist, pure and simple!" Mustadio exclaimed. "Not everyone has the time, the money, the training, or the talent to learn magic, but with this we could-" He broke off with a sheepish look at the floor. "Sorry," he said. "I get excited."

"I can tell," Ovelia said warmly.

Everyone looked back in alarm. Ovelia was supposed to remain hidden in the priest's office behind the old pulpit—that was where they'd put her before bringing Mustadio inside the building. Agrias looked to be having a stroke. "Your Hi..." Agrias trailed off, blanching as she realized that using any honorific would reveal too much. "What are..." But she trailed off again, white-faced and baffled.

"Who's that?" Mustadio asked.

"A friend," Ovelia said. "If I can call you one as well."

Mustadio offered a pale, trembling smile. "A poor friend, who needs so much help."

Agrias was still struggling to find a way to adjust the Princess without calling her by any titles. Radia sighed and said, "We just met him."

"Ramza trusts him," Ovelia said. "Don't you?"

Ramza nodded, thinking of Mustadio's defiance and defense of his father. "I do."

"And so does Agrias," Ovelia continued. "Or she wouldn't have let him in here."

"I had little choice," Agrias grunted, with a sharp look at Ramza.

"Be that as it may," Ovelia said. "It's Mustadio, yes?" Mustadio nodded, and Ovelia said, "You may take off your blindfold if you wish."

Mustadio hesitantly reached up for the cloth. His fingers played with its edge, but didn't quite pull it off. "I, uh..." he started. "I'm grateful, and I don't...if there's something I shouldn't see, I can...I can keep it on."

Agrias heaved an exasperated sigh. "Oh, take it off," she said at last. "I think the damage is done."

Mustadio pulled the blindfold off. He winced even in the dim light, blinked and looked at all of them in a slightly stupefied manner. He smiled nervously around the room. "Hello," he said.

"Hello, Mustadio," Ovelia said. "My name is Ovelia."

Mustadio blinked. "I'm sorry?" he said, in a high voice.

"Ovelia," she repeated. "Your Princess."

"Oh." Mustadio blinked again, then gasped and fell to his knees. "Your Highness, I'm sorry, I didn't even think-"

Ovelia chuckled and gestured around them. "Please rise, Mustadio," she said. "I don't think there's much call to stand on ceremony here, hm?"

Mustadio stared around the ruined chapel, and smiled. "I...suppose not, your Highness." He rose hesitantly from his knees, and reclaimed his seat.

"Why can you lot not show such respect?" grunted Agrias.

"I've never been the type to hang around on my knees," Radia said.

"I knew some girls who did at the Academy," Alicia said.

"Alicia!" Agrias said sharply, as Ovelia, Lavian, and Radia roared with laughter. Mustadio grinned nervously.

"You're from Goug?" Ovelia said, when the laughter had subsided.

Mustadio started nervously. "I'm sorry?"

"You're from Goug?" Ovelia repeated. "You've the look of a machinist."

Mustadio nodded slowly.

"A machinist?" Ramza said, his tongue tripping over the unfamiliar word.

"What do you know of Goug?" Ovelia asked over her shoulder.

"Not much," Ramza said. "Guards the only land route to Mullonde, yes?"

"Not a land route," Ovelia said. "A bridge. Mullonde was one of the largest cities in the Ydoran empire. Bridge let'em take trade across."

"It wasn't called Mullonde back then," Mustadio added. "But during the Fall-"

"Mullonde sank into the sea," Ramza said, remembering vague sermons from Church.

"Along with most of the Ydoran heartland," Mustadio said. "With exceptions like the island the Church renamed...and Goug."

"What's so special about Goug?" Radia asked.

"Was a factory city for the Ydorans," Mustadio said, and his voice assumed that same rapid cadence that blurred the words together and made it hard to understand him. "Wrecked by the Fall, like everything else, but there's plenty there you can dig up and work on and we can't do everything the Ydorans did but we can still learn from them especially their machines but it all works together you can't understand the machines without the magic and vice versa so it takes-"

He broke off with a look of embarrassment. "Sorry," he said.

"You're fine, Mustadio," Ovelia said. "You sound like you're quite a machinist."

Mustadio shook his head. "No. Not compared to my father."

"Who's your father?" Alicia asked.

Mustadio stared at the ground with a look of anguish on his face. "Besrodio," he said. "Besrodion Bunansa."

" _The_ Besrodio?" Alicia exclaimed.

"You know him?" Lavian said in surprise.

"He's the one who refurbished my stave!"

Mustadio's head snapped up. "You have some of his work?" he said.

Alicia withdrew the scepter from its place in her belt and handed it to him. Mustadio studied it intently, running his fingers along the smooth metal. "Yes," he whispered. "This is his." There were tears shining in his eyes. Ramza knew that expression well. He was pretty sure he looked the same, every time someone recounted Balbanes' deeds.

"Why is he in danger?" Ovelia asked. "Why are you in Zaland? Who were those men?"

Mustadio shook his head "You have all been so good to me," he said.. "I do want to wish to endanger you."

Ovelia laughed again. "I think I'm endangered enough."

"My lady!" Agrias exclaimed, as answering laughs spread among the others in the room, Ramza included.

Still Mustadio hesitated. "It is not just that," he said. "There are...I cannot share parts of the story."

"That's fine," Ovelia said. "Just share what you can."

Mustadio closed his eyes. After a moment, he nodded. "What do you know of the Baerd Company?" he asked.

Radia stiffened. "Those men were Baerd's?" she asked. Mustadio nodded,and Radia groaned and ran a hand anxiously through her hair. "Lucavi take me. That's not good."

Agrias frowned. "The Baerd Company?" Agrias said. "Why would they have men like that?"

"Hold on," Ramza said. "What's the Baerd Company?"

Agrias turned to face him. "The Baerd Trading Company," she said. "One of the largest trading firms in Lionel."

"Really started booming during the War," Radia added. "Since their founder, Ludvich Baerd, had a knack for being just where other traders couldn't get."

Ramza felt a chill of premonition. "By which you mean..." he prompted.

"Hard to say," Radia answered. "There's nothing _concrete._ Just weird jobs for the offices, the charities, the people who run things. Odd rumors from the mercs."

"Rumors like what?" Agrias asked.

"Shipments of weapons," Radia said. "Drugs." She paused for a moment. "People."

"Absurd," scoffed Agrias. "The Crown would never allow it."

"It's true," Mustadio said. They looked back to him. He was still staring at the ground. "I didn't believe it, either," he said. "The Baerd Company's all over Goug, sponsoring digs and workshops. You hear things, but you don't..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "You _can't_ believe it," he said "Because then you might not take the gil. And there's so few digs the Church isn't sponsoring..."

"You don't like Church-sponsored work?" Ovelia said in surprise.

Again, Mustadio hesitated. Ramza was surprised at the difference between the fierce young man who had spoken so defiantly to his pursuers and the hesitant soul carefully choosing his words.

"Sometimes what we dig up..." Mustadio shook his head. "Sometimes it doesn't quite line up with what the Church teaches."

"Like what?" Ovelia asked.

"I...I really shouldn't," Mustadio said. "Anyways, it's...once the Inquisition gets involved, it's a whole different...you don't want anyone investigating you for heresy, even if..." Still he searched for the right words.

"Mustadio," Ovelia said gently.

"Call me Mus, please," he said at once. "I know my name's a bit of a mouthful."

"Mus." she said. "It's okay. No one's perfect, not even the Church."

Mustadio's face screwed up. "But they're better than him," he whispered. "I shouldn't even...how can I..."

Silence, as he fought his tears with shaky breaths. At length, he continued, "They...sponsored one of my father's digs. Baerd Company. He...had these reports about an airship crash, and he was hoping...and when we found it, they wanted it and he wouldn't..."

"What did he find?" Alicia asked.

Mustadio shook his head. "I can't tell you."

"A weapon?" Alicia pressed.

"Alicia," Ovelia said quietly, and Alicia subsided.

"They came for us," Mustadio said. "He...stayed behind. He has to be alive, right? He has to..."

No one answered. Mustadio's eyes were watering.

"He's a hostage," Radia said. "They won't kill a hostage. Especially not if they want what you found."

"They do," Mustadio said. He relaxed a little.

"So what are you doing in Zaland?" Ovelia asked.

"I...didn't mean to come here," Mustadio said. "I was trying to get to Lionel. If I could get an audience with Cardinal Delacroix..." He blinked in confusion as surprise rippled among Ovelia's company, glances of disbelief exchanged among them without thinking. "What? What did I say?"

"I..." Ovelia visibly reasserted her composure. "I suppose I'm just curious, given what you said about avoiding the Church."

"Not the Church!" Mustadio exclaimed. "I believe in the Saint! Only..." He sighed. "Only I do not wish to deny what evidence I see. A machinist's job is to uncover the truth—the way the thing works. You cannot pretend it does not work simply because it challenges you! And the Cardinal... the Cardinal agrees! He's...he's a good man. Keeps the peace. Doesn't mind discussion. It's not his fault the Church digs run through the Inquisition Office."

"You're a long way from Lionel Castle," Ovelia said.

Mustadio nodded. "Baerd's men are everywhere," he said. "I couldn't get close. I made it this far, but I..." He buried his face in his hands. "I don't know what to do."

Ovelia frowned, and turned away from Mustadio. She searched the faces of her companions—first Agrias, who shook her head, then Alicia and Lavian, who each looked unsure. Last she looked to Radia and Ramza. Radia pursed her lips and shrugged slightly. Ramza hesitated just for a moment, then nodded. He'd already made his decision when he'd decided to intervene during the fight outside. Besides, how was Mustadio any different from them? Just another victim of powerful opportunists. Just a man who loved his father, and wanted to try and save him.

Ovelia's mouth thinned into a line. Ramza didn't know what he'd do if she refused to help Mustadio. He couldn't abandon the Princess, but he couldn't imagine leaving Mustadio on his own, either.

"You're in luck," Ovelia said, turning away from Ramza to face the young man. "We're trying to reach the Cardinal, too."

Mustadio's face lit up. It was a surprising, endearing change: he went from a frightened, uncertain, grungy child to a confident, bright man. It was astonishing what a little hope could do.

He fell to his knees and bowed his head. "Thank you, your Highness!"

"My lady," Agrias said in a low voice.

"We are all going the same way, Agrias," Ovelia said. "And I cannot imagine that adding the Baerd Company's henchmen to the ranks of the Hokuten and Nanten will make our task any more difficult."

Agrias sighed. "Yes, your Highness," she said, in a tone that clearly expressed her disagreement.

"The Hokuten?" Mustadio repeated, and then his eyes widened. "Oh, of course! No wonder Zaland's full of them!" He looked down at his stinking coveralls with a grimace. "Oh no."

"What?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio sighed and flicked off a particularly nasty bit of offal clinging to his pantleg. "It just figures."

Ramza and the others exchanged looks of confusion. "Are you alright?" Ovelia asked.

Mustadio looked up with an ironic smile. "Oh, fine," he said. "I just don't want to go through the sewers again."

"What do you mean?" Radia asked.

"Baerd's men were chasing me," Mustadio said. "And he's got money to throw around, so you know he's got guards and knights on the payroll. You think I get through the city if I go through the gates?"

Agrias stared at him. "There's another way through?"

"Not through," Mustadio answered. "Under."

Ovelia laughed. Agrias shot her an alarmed look. "My lady?" she said questioningly.

Ovelia's laughter faded a little, but she was still chuckling. "Just thinking," Ovelia said. "No good deed goes unpunished."


	45. Chapter 44: A Grateful Company

(Thanks for reading! Just remember, there's plenty more of my writing at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 44: A Grateful Company**

The water was cool against her bare skin. The sun was so bright that she could see it shining even through her closed eyelids, and she basked in its radiant warmth. The barest breeze tickled her face, her chest, and the tips of her toes. She smiled a little, and was surprised to find how easy it was to smile.

"Are you alright, my lady?" Agrias asked.

Ovelia creaked open one eye. Agrias was fully-clothed in the soft tunic and trousers she wore beneath her armor. She was busily washing said armor in the stream that wound away from the little pool in which Ovelia floated, but had turned to look at Ovelia. Her damp hair stuck against her back.

"Fine, Agrias," Ovelia said.

"If you are quite finished," Agrias continued. "You might consider-"

"Not all of us are in a hurry, Agrias!" Radia called. She was lounging near the pool's edge, sitting with her legs submerged and her head cast back to the sky. She wore a cat's satisfied smile and nothing else.

"It is not ladylike to stay unclothed longer than necessary," Agrias said stiffly.

"Then I'm glad I'm not a lady," Radia said.

Ovelia grinned lazily and leaned back into the water again, floating serenely. The first plunge into the pool had been all desperation—after the exhaustion of days spent traveling, and after the abhorrence of the Zaland Sewers, she had needed to feel clean again. First climbing through a fetid canal that led to a broken grate, then down into the stinking dark of the Zaland Sewers, with only Lavian and Alicia's magic to light their way. There, wading through water that was sometimes a viscous, odorous sludge, following a hesitant Mustadio as he picked his uncertain way through the cavernous sewers, her head was half-filled with dormitory tales of ancient monsters beneath Ydoran cities, of things forgotten that hungered for prey.

Even after they'd been freed from those horrible confines and stumbled into the misty pre-dawn light, the smell of it pervaded her, clinging to her hair, her skin, her clothes. Staggering with weariness and nausea, they had struggled to follow Mustadio as he led them along the stream that ran away from the city. The path took them well off any main road—and, in so doing, away from any of their mutual enemies. Dawn gave way to afternoon, and as the summer sun had beat down from on high, they had found the leaning ruin of an old farm just beneath a hill, where the stream forked off into a gorgeous nest of trickling creeks babbling over smooth stones and placid pools of serene water.

Who could resist that alluring sight? Even Agrias had only the energy to half-heatedly shove Mustadio and Ramza to the opposite side of the hill, with muttered admonishments and warnings that didn't quite make sense. Then they stripped stinking armor and cloth from their bodies, and plunged into the water.

"You may not be a lady," Agrias said grimly. "But our Princess is."

Ovelia turned her head and smiled at her bodyguard, who had fought so hard for her sake and who in spite of that remained so hilariously uptight.

"Agrias," Ovelia said gently. "Do you really think Ramza and Mustadio are going to try and steal a peek at me?"

Agrias flushed. "I...no, my lady."

"So what exactly are you worried about?"

"If someone..if anyone should..." Agrias fretted. "What if someone sees you?"

Ovelia and Radia stared at Agrias. Then they looked at each other, and the moment their eyes met they burst out laughing. It was a loud, ungainly sound, a wild cackle that scared a pair of birds in a bush nearby and sent them flying desperately for cover. The laughter seemed to fill her lungs and ripple beneath her skin even as it stirred other ripples in the water around her. It was the weight of her exhaustion, the draining emotional highs and lows of the past several days, the revulsion of the sewers and the sudden ease of their new surroundings, the ridiculousness of Agrias' fears coupled with the genuine terror of her enemies coming upon her naked. It all alloyed together into a delirious hysteria that left her howling.

"Oh Saint!" Ovelia cried towards the sky. "Forgive me!"

"Not just a traitor!" Radia called back, her teardrop breasts shaking as she tried to swallow her laughter. "But a harlot!"

"The shame!" Ovelia warbled.

"The shame!" Radia agreed, and fell back into the water, howling herself.

Agrias' lips were pursed and her eyes burned with an emotion somewhere between exasperation and amusement. "It's not _that_ ridiculous," she muttered.

Radia wiped tears from her eyes. "It's pretty ridiculous."

"I'll get dressed soon, Agrias," Ovelia said. Agrias nodded reluctantly, and Ovelia lay back again, letting herself float free in the cool water. God, it had felt good to laugh that way. Radia did that to her. She was so bright and funny. She made everything seem a little easier. Even the thought of the Cardinal, and what he might do with her.

She frowned into the sky, and shifted in the water, bracing palms, butt, and heels against the slippery stones. She glanced down at her bare chest and watched droplets of water trickle away down her round, golden-skinned breasts. Suddenly she was conscious of her nakedness, and of the enemies she had in the world. Suddenly her skin prickled with the fear that one such enemy might come upon her now, when she was weak and vulnerable, exposed for all the world to see.

She swam towards the shore, keeping her body in the water so she could soak in some of it's placid cool and hide her nakedness from phantom enemies. When she drew close, Agrias gave her a sheepish look. "Your clothes are still damp, my lady. Alicia has not had time to dry them."

"I don't mind, Agrias," Ovelia said, pulling the damp clothes from a nearby rock. "Where'd they get off to, anyways?" Both Alicia and Lavian had disappeared shortly after they had all begun to dip into the pool.

Agrias looked more sheepish still. "I...believe they are resting, my lady."

Ovelia frowned. "Resting?"

"In their own fashion," Agrias said. Ovelia studied her guard captain, who looked yet more sheepish. Before Ovelia could formulate a question, Agrias continued, in a lower voice, "Did you still wish to talk to Radia, my lady?"

Ovelia glanced back to Radia, who was still lounging in the water with her shaggy red hair just touching her muscular shoulders. Thoughts of Lavian and Alicia drained away. They were welcome to their rest, after all they'd done for her. Everyone had done so much for her, but perhaps none more than Radia. And, most important of all, no one since Alma had made her feel so at ease.

"Radia!" Ovelia called. Radia glanced over, and Ovelia beckoned for her to come join them. Radia rose from the water at once, so that water rained down her pale skin. She was wiry all the way through—her abs were taut beneath her dark nipples, her arms and legs corded with muscle as she waded towards them, droplets glistening on the tips of her hair and on her red bush.

"What's up?" she asked.

Ovelia and Agrias exchanged questioning glances. Ovelia nodded slightly, and Agrias turned back to Radia. "Would you like your clothes?"

Radia shrugged. "Not if they're still wet."

Agrias frowned. "As I said, not very lady-like."

"As I said," Radia answered. "I'm not a lady."

"But a Lioness must meet very high standards of personal conduct," Agrias said. "You must demonstrate a sense of propriety if you wish to be one of us."

Radia blinked. She frowned and shook her head, as though she were having trouble hearing. "What?"

Agrias stood up. Even in her cotton clothes, damp against her body, she looked imposing. Ovelia had always thought that Agrias was one of the strongest people she'd ever known: she seemed to wear that strength like armor at all times.

"We are grateful to you and Ramza both," Agrias said. "But Ramza did not turn against his father for the sake of a righteous cause. He did not risk his life against this terrible plot for the sake of duty, in spite of the suspicion from those who shared your cause." Agrias offered Radia a shy smile. "He did not embody every virtue of the Lionesses."

Radia stared at them, her mouth slack, her eyes wide.

"It's quite an honor, I know," Ovelia added. "Who wouldn't want to be the bodyguard to a Princess the whole kingdom wants dead?"

"My lady!" Agrias squawked in outrage, but the joke broke Radia from her shock. She blinked, shaking her head as though to clear the cobwebs.

"I..." Radia shook her head again. "I don't know what to say."

"You don't have to say anything," Ovelia said gently.

"You are already doing all that a Lioness should," Agrias agreed. "Though when we disprove the charges against her Highness, we will have to teach you how to behave with decorum."

Radia nodded, but still seemed at a loss for words. She was uncharacteristically silent as she pulled on her clothes, and Ovelia was soon lost among her own thoughts, distracted only by the rubbing of damp fabric against her clammy skin as they headed back for the abandoned farm where they had silently agreed to shelter for the night.

The Cardinal was her best hope. Unlike Mustadio, she had the benefit of having met the man. In person, he had seemed every bit the equal of his weighty reputation. His broad-chested, powerful body moved with martial confidence, but his eyes were bright, and his thick-lipped mouth seemed eager to bunch up into a smile beneath his bushy mustache. His lively dark eyes sparked and danced, but when he looked at you it seemed you had his complete attention. It all gave the impression of a man at once authoritative and compassionate, who would listen patiently and then act decisively.

Of course, that had been before his wife and son were killed. That had been a nasty business, made nastier because the priests and her guards had refused to discuss it with her. All she heard were the distorted rumors: of the rogue heretic who had waylaid their coach, thinking the Cardinal within, and of the monstrous things he'd done when he discovered his mistake. Most of what she'd managed to learn had come from Alma.

A pang then, as she remembered her time at Orbonne. Back then (but it wasn't really so long ago, months not years, so why did it ache so to remember) she had loathed her confinement in the Monastery, though she had tried to bear it as best she could, believing that at least she helped to keep the peace. Now she was surprised to find she remembered those days with fondness—Simon's quiet, good-natured counsel, and Alma's stalwart cheeky flouting of the rules that surrounded them.

Radia stumbled inside the farmhouse: Ovelia remained outside, allowing the warm sun to dry her clothes. She closed her eyes and tilted her head to the sky, enjoying the brightness of it through her eyelid, the heat of it baking her skin. Agrias stood by her side. As always, she reassured Ovelia: she felt so solid and sure, as dependable as an oak tree.

"Are you well, my lady?" Agrias asked.

Ovelia smiled, and shook her head. "Not really, Agrias."

"I am sorry, your Highness."

Ovelia shook her head and cracked open one eye. Agrias was looking at her with unusual grief in her eyes. Ovelia felt a pang in her heart. "It's not your fault."

"I am aware," Agrias said. "I am but a knight. I cannot stop the machinations of your enemies. But it..." Agrias closed her eyes. "It pains me that I cannot protect you from them."

"Agrias..." Ovelia breathed. She hesitated for a moment—the old rules of courtly behavior still hung heavy on her—but then she grimaced and grabbed at Agrias' hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. "You don't know how grateful I am."

"I am not worthy of your gratitude," Agrias replied, her eyes closing. Her hand hung limp in Ovelia's grasp. "If it were not for Radia and Ramza, you would be...my lady, we would have..."

"It's not your fault," Ovelia said again.

"But it is my duty," Agrias whispered. "To keep you safe. And I...I cannot..."

Silence, for a moment. Ovelia stared up into her bodyguard's face, and felt all her fears and doubts come swimming back.

"No," Ovelia said. "You can't."

Agrias winced and tried to pull her hand out of Ovelia's, but Ovelia held fast. "Agrias," Ovelia said. "The Queen wants me dead. Her brother wants me dead. Goltanna wants me dead. The only ones we know don't want me dead are Delita and his friends, and I don't know what they want for me. And what if..."

There was a lump in her throat, and all her nervous swallowing did nothing to dispel it. "Even if we can trust the Cardinal," Ovelia continued. "Even if he'll protect me, who's to say the High Priest will? Or that someone won't find a way to get at us? Or...or what if they have their own..." She could hear the teary weakness in her voice, and found she was helpless to hide it.

Agrias' eyes snapped open, aghast. "My lady," she whispered. "I will..." But she trailed off in turn, with that same note of weakness in her voice. Because she knew, as Ovelia knew, that no matter her loyalty or skill, she could not keep Ovelia safe from such danger.

Ovelia smiled weakly, and squeezed Agrias' hand. "No one could do more than you," Ovelia said. "Please don't punish yourself for being human."

Agrias managed a smile that looked as weak as Ovelia's felt. They remained that like that, hand-in-hand, trying and failing to smile. Agrias, her faithful guard, her faithful friend, stubbornly proper and stubbornly loyal.

"-and Barich tosses a match!" exclaimed Mustadio's voice from farther down the hill.

"No!" Ramza laughed in disbelief

"I swear!" Mustadio replied, chuckling himself. "Like it was nothing!"

They were not the only ones laughing—Ovelia recognized the voices of Alicia and Lavian.

"Well, what happened?" Lavian asked.

"Whole thing goes up!" Mustadio said. "We took off! Felt like my pants were on fire the whole way home."

"Can't believe you use matches in Goug," Alicia chortled.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mustadio grunted. "Not everyone's got a fancy scepter."

"Thank your dad for me," Alicia said.

"You can thank him yourself when we get him free," Mustadio answered.

Ovelia and Agrias exchanged looks, and released their hold on each others' hands just as the four others crested the hill together. Mustadio and Ramza had evidently just finished bathing—their clothes were still damp, sticking awkwardly to their bodies. Alicia and Lavian seemed drier, but also sloppier somehow—their hair was messy and their clothes a little askew. All four seemed in good cheer, though Lavian's smile flickered when she spied Agrias and Ovelia.

"Captain," Lavian said in a small voice.

"I trust you and Alicia are well-rested?" Agrias asked, in voice that carried an odd mixture of amusement and disapproval.

Lavian and Alicia exchanged guilty looks. "Yes ma'am," Lavian said.

"Excellent," Agrias said. "You may alternate cleaning our gear and taking watches until moonrise."

Alicia glowered at Agrias. "Captain, come on!" she exclaimed. "We need sleep just like-"

Lavian prodded Alicia's chest with her elbow. Ovelia frowned. "Weren't you both resting?"

"A short nap," Lavian said. "Enough to see us through until moonrise. We'll grab our gear and get to work, ma'am."

She headed inside. Alicia followed behind, muttering obscenities. Mustadio rubbed sleepily at his eyes, and said, "If you do not mind, I will sleep as well. It has been a long few weeks."

Ramza nodded. "Of course, Mus. You've got to tell me more about that drinking contest, though."

"I don't want to make you an accessory to my crimes," Mustadio answered, with a lazy grin.

He stumbled inside. A moment later, Alicia and Lavian exited the building, laden with their gear.

"Let's find the best vantage points," Agrias said. She turned to go, then stopped and glanced at Ovelia. "You should rest as well, my lady."

Ovelia nodded. "Soon," she said. "And Agrias?" Her guard stopped moving up the hill and gave her a questioning look. "Thank you."

Agrias tried again to smile, then led Alicia and Lavian up the hill, leaving Ovelia and Ramza by themselves. She looked back at him and was surprised to find that he was rather handsome. Clean of the muck that had covered him, yes, but there was something else. Where before he'd worn a hangdog look that had always made him seem pitiful, now he seemed confident and bright. He looked a lot more like Alma and—wasn't this an odd thought—a lot more like Delita.

"You're looking better," Ovelia said.

Ramza blinked in surprise, then smiled. "I'm _feeling_ better," he agreed.

"A lot like your sister."

Ramza blinked again, this time in evident consternation. "Is...that a good thing?"

"Depends on who you ask," Ovelia replied, smiling herself. Ramza laughed, and Ovelia said "You like him? Mustadio?"

Ramza nodded. "He's interesting. And he's..." Ramza looked off into the distance. "He fights so hard."

"For his father," Ovelia said. Ramza nodded. "Is that why you saved him?" Ovelia asked.

Ramza pursed his lips thoughtfully. "A little," he admitted. "Did Alma tell you about him?"

"She showed me her drawings."

Ramza shook his head. "I didn't know she could draw so well." He looked around the leaning farmhouse laden with ivy, then gestured to where Ovelia sat. "May I join you?"

Ovelia nodded, and Ramza slumped down besides her, fiddling with the grass that grew right up against the crumbling walls. "I wanted to thank you," he said. "For...for letting Mustadio travel with us. I know it's-"

"Are you joking?" Ovelia exclaimed. "You want to thank _me_?"

Ramza looked up in confusion. "What do you-"

"Ramza, you saved my life," Ovelia said. "And...and he was in trouble. We had to help."

Ramza smiled. "I felt the same. It's...it's good to feel that way again."

And Ovelia felt her smile broaden so that it hurt her cheeks. It did feel good, didn't it? She missed the peace of Orbonne, and she feared for her life and feared all the threats, known and unknown, that lurked in Ivalice with their hungry eyes fixed on her. But she also felt alive. The thrill of the chase, and the fight in the woods, the nervous exhilaration of hiding in Zaland's outskirts, even the miserable crawl through the Zaland sewers. It was terrifying, yes, but she had never felt more alive. She was not being told what to do anymore; she was deciding her own fate, with the help of people she could trust and rely on. And this peculiar pleasure lightened her other fears, and made her feel somehow that in spite of the hopeless odds stacked against her, she might well succeed.

Did Ramza understand? For when her smile creased her face, Ramza's smile widened, too. They remained like that, smiling like fools, for some time. Then an odd memory struck Ovelia—of a frustrating day spent on the hills around Orbonne, in the same wan afternoon light that now faded towards the horizon.

"You know," Ovelia said. "Alma could never show me how to blow a grass flute?"

Ramza sighed in exasperation. "Of course not," he said. "She's a lousy teacher."

"Are you?" Ovelia asked.

Ramza frowned. "I...I don't know. I've never tried."

Ovelia flucked a blade of grass from the ground, pressed it to her lips, and tried to blow. It fluttered impotently between her lips. "See?" she said.

"No, it's your thumbs," Ramza said. "Like this."

He plucked his own blade, put it to his lips, and blew a high, clear note. Ovelia couldn't believe the noise was coming from a blade of grass. Inspired, Ovelia tried again, to no avail. For the next few minutes, Ramza coached her as best he could, until Ovelia realized that the alignment of thumbs and mouth was crucial. She managed one weak, fluting note, and was so surprised she dropped the grass.

"Much better," he said approvingly.

"Not nearly as good as you and Alma," Ovelia huffed.

"It took us a whole day," Ramza said. "And that was with Father helping."

There he was again. Balbanes' ghost, which always hung so heavy around Alma. Ovelia didn't know what that was like. She remembered nothing of her birthfather—of Denamda II, who had led Ivalice to so many victories. She remembered dimly the mansions of the nobles who had cared for her before Ondoria had adopted her, and remembered far more bitterly the weak-willed king who had been her brother by blood and her father by adoption and had played the role of neither. She wondered what it must be like, to have someone you trusted so completely.

Perhaps rather like Simon, who had taught her in secret and protected her, even at risk to his own life. Perhaps rather like Agrias, who stood by her side unflinchingly, whatever the world threw at her.

The two of them looked out towards the sun, which was beginning to slide down towards the horizon. Ovelia thought wistfully of Simon, who had given her solace even on her loneliest days.

"I...I still have Alma's sketchbook," Ramza said. "If you wanted to look at it."

Ovelia nodded, though her eyes burned. "I'd like that."

Ramza rose and entered the building. Ovelia remained behind, watching the wind rustle through the tall glass and stirring the pool with ripples. The sun was bright and the breeze was cool she had friends on whom to count. For all the dangers that surrounded her, and all the uncertainty that lay ahead, Ovelia felt at ease for the first time in years.


	46. Chapter 45: The Stone

(Thanks for reading! Just remember, there's plenty more of my writing at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 45: The Stone**

The gate of Lionel Castle loomed ahead of them, an imposing stonework edifice elaborately carved to distinguish it from the surrounding bluffs. Two guards were visible on the rugged walls to either side of the gate; Ovelia was sure there must be more within the walls, with arrows trained on them through the dark murderholes that pitted the wall here and there a caterpillar's bitemarks on a leaf.

"Are you sure, my lady?" Agrias muttered, as they crossed the wide wooden bridge that went over the river that encircled the Castle and wound down into Lionel City.

"What choice do we have?" Ovelia asked. The last few days had been a slow nervous trek over the rolling hills and through the muddy streams that made up this section of Lionel. The terrain made for country that was generally sparsely populated, but what farmland was tended was extremely fertile, and what cities and forts there were were extremely defensible. Lionel City, some half a mile south of the Castle Proper, lay in a valley, with its watch towers on the hills that surrounded it to protect it from harm, and outlying farmland that supplied the town, the castle, the Gryphon Knights, and many parts of Ivalice proper. It traded the fruits of its harvest out of the port city Warjilis, far to the south, and with Zaland to the north.

"Halt!" shouted one off the knights upon the wall, as they crossed the bridge.

Ovelia looked up at him, feeling stringy with anxiousness. Merely approaching the Castle had heightened her nerves: it was a proper Ydoran fortification, protected first by a wide river that denied passage on all sides save here, and then again by walls of white stone built into cliffs, bluffs, and hills. Lionel Castle was practically a city unto itself, and if the Cardinal and his men had no wish to see her, she had no way to force his hand.

But her question to Agrias was still apt. What choice did they have? In their days of travel, they had seen the men of the Baerd company, always easily-dissuaded by their numbers ("Of course they are," Radia had pointed out. "They're looking for one man, not an armed band"). No Hokuten or Nanten appeared—neither the Cardinal nor the Church would have permitted them free run across Lionel—but what would happen if someone spotted her?

They had camped in little cave in an old quarry outside Lionel City, discussing what came next. But everyone agreed that simply approaching the Gryphon Knights or city officials was too risky. They had no idea whose loyalties lay where. What if the person they reached out to had ties to the Hokuten? The Nanten? The Baerd Company? Delita's conspirators?

Paranoia gnawed at Ovelia's insides until she made her decision. Until she realized that all paths were risky, and that being the case the best way forward was whatever path was the shortest and surest to the Cardinal. Such as approaching the gate to his castle, wanted as she was by the Crown.

She lowered the hood of her cloak, and raised her face to the guards. She gathered every ounce of her training, tried to force herself to stand straighter, to look like the very incarnation of royal grace.

"Prepare to be admitted!"

Ovelia stared up at the guard in disbelief. She felt her mouth opening and closing like a fish. "What?" she managed, in a strangled squeak. She almost didn't notice the gates sliding backwards, and stepped back quickly when she saw the movement from the corner of her eye.

There was no heavy squeal of metal against metal, no creaking of hinges dealing with immense weights. The gate widened with only a whisper of noise, a slight hiss. Wider and wider, wider than Ovelia could believe. A column could have marched through that gate, thirty men across with room to spare. Chocobos and their riders could have poured through that gate ten abreast.

There was a man beyond that gate. A man whose bald head gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, whose dropping mustache bristled above his full lips. His belly protruded through the fabric of his bue robe a bit more than it had been when last she'd seen him, and his dark eyes did not carry the same bright sparkle, but what else could she expect, with what he'd been through?

"Cardinal Delacroix?" she cried, stirring a ripple of surprise among her companions.

"Welcome, my lady!" the Cardinal called, gesturing for her to enter. Ovelia walked towards him as though in a dream, feeling like she was floating through the air. Somehow she missed the closing of the gate, failed to speak. She had imagined many scenarios—hostile and suspicion, guarded optimism, a lucky audience with a surprised Cardinal. She had never imagined that the man would be waiting for her at the gate.

"Cardinal," she managed, after she had found her voice again.

"Not here," he murmured, and led them on. She fell silent obediently, thoughts still whirling, as he led them towards the elegant castle behind its heavy protective walls, down halls and up staircases of the same polish stonework, ornately decorated with paintings and tapestries, until they reached a comfortable salon with chairs, couches, and settees all upholstered in the same plush fabric. A tray of fruit and wine was already on the table in the sitting area.

"Sit, please!" the Cardinal exclaimed.

His request jolted Agrias out of her reverie. "We couldn't possibly, your Grace!"

"You must," the Cardinal said. "Officially, you are a Romandan delegation discussing the expansion of the Church in the Empire. If you do not sit, we do not look proper."

The Cardinal bustled around their stunned company, got them seated over what feeble protests Agrias managed to voice, then sat himself down at the edge of a couch closest to the heavy desk on the far wall.

"I am glad you have made it safely," the Cardinal said. "I apologize for not being able to send an escort, but in some matters my hands remain tied."

Ovelia did not answer. She could not find the words to do so. The Cardinal looked around the room, then said, "Will you not eat or drink? You must be famished."

Absently, Ovelia plucked a grape and popped it into her mouth, barely noticing the taste of it or the feel of its cool juice dripping down her throat. Still she stared at the Cardinal, her mind stuttering along, trying to reconcile her fears with the man in front of her, welcoming her to safety.

"I was..." Ovelia struggled to find some formal courtesy to free her tongue. "I was sorry to hear, about...about your family."

The Cardinal's face softened, and he closed his eyes. "I appreciate it, your Highness."

It took her another few seconds to speak again. "How..." she started, and did not know how to finish her sentence. "How did you know I was..."

The Cardinal smiled. "A Princess, who is such an object of hate for the Queen that this hate is common knowledge, disappears from a Church Monastery. A few days later, the Hokuten announce that the Princess is wanted in connection with a plot against the royal family. And quiet letters warn that this Princess may be in Lionel, and that the Cardinal would do well to remember that his authority over Lionel comes only by grace of the Crown."

Ovelia shook her head. "She threatened you?"

"In so many words," the Cardinal said. "I am no fool, Ovelia. Where else could you turn, with the others powers arrayed against you?" His eyes darkened. "I am only sorry I could not-"

"You don't have to be sorry, Your Grace," Ovelia said at once.

The Cardinal waved her to silence. "Of course I do," he growled. "Political necessities force me to stay my hand where my conscience demands I act. Would God not be ashamed? Should _I_ not be ashamed?"He was breathing heavily, his eyes bright. With an obvious effort, he calmed himself. "No more," he said. "You are in my care now. I did not seek you out: you came to me, and you will have my protection."

Another ripple among her companions. The stunned, stern, uncertain faces all softened with relief. Ovelia felt that same softening happening inside her, relaxing the parts of herself that had been coiled so tight that they had felt ready to snap. It had never occurred to her that the Cardinal might be so aware of the trouble she faced, or that he would be so welcoming when she came to him for help. She suddenly felt so light and free that she might have drifted away upon the breeze.

"Thank you," she whispered. Without thinking, she poured herself a glass of wine, and somehow glasses were in everyone's hands, and the Cardinal was smiling again.

"Now," he said. "Much as I would love to let you rest, I cannot aid you without knowing precisely what we are facing." He looked around the room. "I would like you to tell me everything you can."

They tried, as best as they were able. Ovelia found herself surprised at what she learned—the dimensions of conflict she hadn't known, the early distrust between Radia, Ramza, and her Lionesses. Ramza and Radia shared a little of what had come before, when they had traveled to Igros to receive the contract with Gaffgarion. Only Mustadio was taciturn, speaking in terse, nervous sentences and never quite meeting the Cardinal's eye.

The Cardinal was largely silent as they talked, speaking up to only ask some clarifying question. By the time they were winding down, having exhausted themselves in recounting the wild weeks, he was painted orange by the sunlight streaming through the windows as the sun began to set.

He shook his head, as he had done many times during the conversation. "I had thought you remarkable when first we met, Your Highness," the Cardinal said. "I think it safe to say you have proven my assessment accurate. Though perhaps the credit lies in part with a remarkable company. A Beoulve and a Gaffgarion standing shoulder to shoulder with the Lionesses."

He raised his smiling face to the rest of her entourage, who seemed to glow with the same pleasure that Ovelia felt radiating out from somewhere in her chest, like sunlight coursing through her veins. With all her fears banished, she had only the pleasure and determination afforded her by the last several days. She felt even better than she had at the abandoned farmhouse.

Lastly, the Cardinal's gaze fell upon Mustadio. His face softened. "Mustadio Bunansa."

Mustadio flinched, but raised his eyes. "Your Grace?" he said softly.

The Cardinal's smile had faded. There was iron in his eyes now. For the first time, Ovelia glimpsed the general who had been so feared during the 50 Years' War.

"I am sorry for what has been done to your father," he said. "I am sorry for what has been done to you. I would have exterminated Baerd and his ilk years ago, but..." He shook his head despondently. "Again, even I must bow to political realities."

Mustadio looked heartbroken. "Oh," he said, in a small voice.

The Cardinal nodded grimly. "Baerd greases the right palms," he grunted. "And wears a convincing mask. The Inquisition Office holds official jurisdiction over Goug, and I am not permitted to take action without their consent. I would need some pressing religious need. I would need to be able to prove Baerd guilty of blasphemy or heresy."

For just a moment, Mustadio's eyes were wild with vindication. Then the moment passed, and he wore a neutral face. "Oh?" he said, casual as could be.

The Cardinal considered Mustadio for a long time. "This dig they sponsored," the Cardinal said. "What did you find?"

Mustadio did not speak. A faint smile tugged at the corners of the Cardinal's lips. "Your friends tell me you sought my aid," he said. "Do you not trust me, even so?"

Mustadio bowed his head. "Forgive me, your Grace," he said. "But after what happened with Baerd, I don't trust anyone."

The Cardinal chuckled. "I can hardly blame you for that. Let me take the burden from your shoulders." He reached inside his voluminous robes, searched for a moment, and then-

Ovelia jerked back on the couch where she sat with Agrias on one side and Radia on the other, but they too were crying out and shifting—Agrias defensively towards Ovelia, Radia reaching out as thought to touch the red crystal in the Cardinal's hand, a crystal that glowed and burned with force that Ovelia could not describe, force that scared her, force that _entranced_ her.

Mustadio's jaw had dropped. His eyes were glazed. "You have one," he whispered.

The Cardinal smiled, and set the Stone upon the table. The moment he had released his grip, the force of it quieted a little. Now it was a mirage shimmer, something you could almost dismiss as a trick of the light, if you had not see the fierce and undeniable corona when it was in the Cardinal's hand. On its front, the Scorpio symbol was traced in lines of light across the maroon surface.

"I do," the Cardinal said. "I take it you do, as well?"

Mustadio nodded. "In the guts of a broken airship," he whispered. "We saw this...this _glow_. And when I touched it..." He shook his head. "Pretty much all the old machines are broken now. The engines, the Workers, the little things the Ydorans used to make their lives easier. But when I touched that thing, everything came alive. But they're all broken, so it was this loud, terrible noise. Like the machines were howling." He shuddered.

"You have it with you?" the Cardinal asked.

Mustadio shook his head. "Had to hide it."

"Of course," the Cardinal said. "They would not kill you or your father, as long as one of you could lead them to the Stone." He said the words calmly, but his eyes were bright with indignation. "I am sorry that you have been forced to such extremes, Mustadio."

Mustadio nodded, but seemed to have run out of words.

"What is it?" Agrias asked.

"You don't recognize it?" Radia said, and there was such emotion in her voice that Ovelia's head snapped back to the other woman. Radia's face was pale, but her wide eyes glittered with longing and her mouth kept twitching up into a maniacal smile. "It's a Zodiac Stone."

Agrias frowned. "From the fairy tales?"

"You call the doctrine of the Church a fairy tale, Captain Oaks?" the Cardinal said mildly. Agrias flushed and sputtered, and a faint smile toyed with the Cardinal's lips. "No, I understand. There is quite a difference between believing in the Saint and his teachings and in believing in a coalition of disciples who aided their Saint in slaying demons with the help of gifts from God." He gestured towards the Stone on the table. "But when the gift sits in front of you, how can you deny it?"

All eyes turned back to that wine-dark crystal. Radia cleared her throat. "May...may I hold it, your Grace?"

The Cardinal chuckled, and gestured for her to do. With hesitant movements and wonder in her eyes, Radia reached out and took the stone in hand. She was shaking.

"It's...beautiful," she breathed, cradling it between her hands. She stared at the crystal for a long time.

"Radia," Ramza said softly. Radia jumped as though shocked and then guiltily passed the Stone to Ovelia. Ovelia almost dropped it when she took it in her hands—it was so much heavier than it looked, a solid, dense weight in her hands. Its surface was warm and pleasantly smooth.

As the Stone continued its steady migration around the room, Ovelia looked back to the Cardinal, whose eyes followed the path of the crystal. "Your Grace," Ovelia said. "I thought the Stones were lost?"

The Cardinal chuckled again. "Perhaps once," he said. "But the Church would not let the relics of the Saint lay idle, and auracite does not break. It is only a matter of time to recover them."

"Auracite?" Ovelia repeated, puzzled.

"The technical term," Mustadio said at once. "For the kind of crystal. But it's irrelevant, since we've never found auracite outside of the Stones." He paused, and added softly, "I didn't know others had been found."

The Cardinal nodded. "Political realities over pressures of conscience," he said. "Something of a running theme, no?" He sighed and took the Stone from Lavian, who along with Alicia and studied it with rapturous attention. In his hand, it glowed a little brighter; he slid it back into his robes, and Ovelia found her heart ached to see it go.

"We would love to share the miracles of Ajora's time with the world, but think how scary those things might be to some paranoid Queen!" The Cardinal shot Ovelia a searching look. "That the Church should gather such relics...surely it would imply a plot, no? A plan to use their power to overthrow the Crown. Never mind that we have no idea what powers they have, if any; never mind that we cannot use them, even if we were so inclined; never mind that they are relics of the Saint and his Disciples, and could only benefit our world."

"So we wait," the Cardinal continued. "We search for the Stones, as best we can. We hope that one day we will have the good will or the courage to reveal ourselves, and share in our bounty with all Ivalice. And when we find someone who would threaten our Saint's legacy, we take action to ensure that they feel God's justice."

Mustadio sat up straighter in his chair. "Does that mean-"

The Cardinal nodded. "I will write to the Inquisition Office in Goug tonight," he said. "And make arrangements to take Baerd into our custody. We will have to proceed carefully, however: there's no telling who is under his pay. Which reminds me." He glanced back to Ovelia. "Princess, were it in my power, I would publicly declare Lionel for you right now. But I am afraid that I cannot do so without the explicit blessing of High Priest Funeral. I will write him at once, but until such time as I can get word from him, we will need to be cautious."

Ovelia nodded. "You suspect some of your own men serve others?"

"I know it for a fact," the Cardinal answered. "I just don't know which men."

"I understand," she said, and she did; what else had the last few days taught her, if not how difficult it was to find people you could trust? "What do you need from me?"

"You will be confined to this wing of the Castle," he said. "And if anyone attempts to speak to you, I would appreciate it if you kept silent. I will spread word that the Romandan delegate does not speak Ivalician. It would be best if you kept to yourself, in any case."

Ovelia nodded once more, though she felt a pang against her ribs. Locked away behind stone walls once more, prevented by political necessity from speaking with others. She understood the necessity, but even through her relief it felt too much like the isolation of Orbonne.

"Thank you, your Highness," the Cardinal said, and turned back to Mustadio. "Our best hope is to strike at once. I will write those I trust and make arrangements to seize Baerd. I will also write my agents within Goug and have them locate your father. And.." The Cardinal suddenly looked a little guilty. "I am sorry, Mr. Bunansa, but I cannot act unless I am sure to take the Stone in hand. We will need it as proof of Baerd's intentions—and, if I am being honest, we will need it to convince the Inquisition Office to undertake such an onerous task."

Mustadio nodded. "Of course, your Grace."

"It will be dangerous," the Cardinal warned. "Our cause depends on both swiftness and secrecy, so I could not send you with an escort of knights. If Baerd gets word, he may try to kill you."

Mustadio's face was set, his eyes feverish. "If that's what it takes."

"He doesn't need to go alone," Ramza said.

Everyone looked towards Ramza, who was himself staring at Ovelia. "Highness," Ramza said. "With your permission, I would join Mustadio until his father is freed." Radia and Mustadio both gasped. Ramza glanced between them, and his eyes flinched away from Radia to settle on Mustadio. "That is, if you will have me."

Mustadio offered a wavering smile. "You didn't ask to save my life the first time," he said. "You think I'll deny you when you do?"

Ramza smiled in turn, and looked back to Ovelia. Ovelia felt a jealous heat coursing through her veins. Before she could speak, the Cardinal said, "Are you sure, young Beoulve? Two men may attract more attention than one."

Ramza shook his head. "With due respect, your Grace," he said. "I think it offers him protection without compromising your plans."

The Cardinal pursed his thick lips and inclined his head a fraction of an inch. Ramza turned his attention back to Ovelia, in whose veins the jealous heat had cooled a little.

"You don't serve me," she said, her voice calm. "You are free to do as you please."

"I am aware, your Highness," he said. "But I would feel better with your blessing."

"Would you?" Radia said, in a strained and strangled voice.

Ramza's eyes flickered towards Radia, then back to Ovelia. "I would."

For a moment, Ovelia almost denied him. The jealous heat had cooled a little more, but it was still there, sunburning her skin from the inside. Why should Ramza get to walk free, while she was trapped behind stone walls once again?

But of course, the question answered itself. He had to be free, because unlike her he could be. And because he was Alma's brother, and a good friend in his own right, and deserved better than that from her.

"You may go, Ramza," she said, and she felt another, fiercer pang, because he had shown her how to blow the grass flute and there were so few people she trusted and now he would walk out into the world, free as she could never be, and who knew when she would see him again? So she added, "But you must come back."

He smiled an earnest, relieved smile. "Of course, your Highness."

Ovelia turned to Radia to ask her if she wanted to go with him, but the question caught in her throat. There was such pain and confusion on Radia's face, such wild raw emotion in her eyes, that Ovelia didn't know what to say.

"Well, the matter is settled," the Cardinal said. "I will show you to your rooms, and we may make arrangements to deal with Baerd."

He rose from his seat, and the others followed suit. Ovelia's head was swimming with wine and relief, but as she followed the Cardinal from the sitting room, she suspected that matters weren't settled at all.


	47. Chapter 46: Uncertain Paths

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 **Chapter 46: Uncertain Paths**

 _...Though a nation may dedicate itself to God, still its laws may contradict His. And though no throne sits higher than God's still the powerful may think their word supersedes His. But God did not give you a heart and mind so you might be bound by mortal law. If pangs of conscience demand you follow a difficult road, follow them, whatever law you may break, whatever tyrant you may trouble, for in the whispers of your heart lie the will of God._

 _-Balias Gospel, "Ajora's Sermon on the Slopes in Lionel"_

"Don't cast unless it's an emergency," Alicia said, as Ramza fussed with his pack.

"Yes, ma'am," Ramza said, rising to his feet. His quarters, which he shared with Mustadio, were spartan but functional—four narrow beds, one on each corner of the room, with an attendant dresser that came up to Ramza's thigh. There were a single small window, black with night; the only light came from the runelights that glowed along the ceiling. The floors and walls were made of the same grey stone. Mustadio lay back on his bed, snoring a little.

"I'm serious," Alicia said. "You don't know what you're doing. Odds are you wouldn't hurt yourself, but novices don't have a sense for just how much it costs. The Academy's got a whole set of special rooms to minimize the damage—and healers on standby to make sure no one gets hurt."

"As someone who attended a military academy," Ramza said, in the stilted Leslian accent he'd so often heard from spoiled, naive nobles like Madoc. "I am woefully unaware of what a dangerous weapon can do in clumsy hands."

Lavian grinned, but Alicia glowered at Ramza. "It's not funny," Alicia insisted.

"It's not," Ramza said. "But _you_ are."

Alicia snorted, but handed Ramza the focus she'd retrieved from the Lionel armory—a wooden stave with some runes already etched into it. It felt so light in Ramza's hands, and he glanced over to Lavian. "Any advice?"

Lavian shrugged. "You know some basics," she said. "Won't do you much good, but you can etch some of the runes into that stave if you want."

Ramza nodded, and felt his neck prickling. He'd always felt terribly awkward during goodbyes.

"Alicia!" barked Agrias. "Lavian!"

Both women snapped to attention and pivoted on their heel. Mustadio jolted from his sleep and nearly fell out of the bed, cursing as he fought to right himself. Agrias strode inside, buckling her blue armor as she entered the room. She shot Mustadio an amused glanced. "Do you require help?"

Mustadio grimaced and righted himself, folding his arms in front of his chest. "I require you to not enter my room while shouting!"

Her eyebrows arched. "A little late now, isn't it? You're leaving tomorrow."

Mustadio grimaced again, and did not answer. Agrias turned her attention back to Alicia and Lavian. "Now that missives have been sent, the Cardinal fears for the Princess' safety, in case someone attempts something desperate. He wishes us to join with his regular guard patrols and reinforce them as best we're able."

"Yes ma'am!" Alicia and Lavian said together. They turned back to Ramza, and smiled. Their smiles were eerily similar, in spite of how different their faces were.

"Thank you, Ramza," Lavian said.

"Hurry back, okay?" Alicia said.

Ramza smiled. "I will."

The women stepped past Agrias and into the hall. Agrias remained where she was, looking at Ramza. "I have told you how grateful I am," Agrias said, her face stony.

Ramza nodded. "Thank you for trusting me."

Agrias nodded, and looked to Mustadio. "I am glad we could help you, Mustadio," she said. "I will pray for your success."

Mustadio blinked. "Yes, I...thank you, Captain Oaks. Thank you for everything."

Agrias nodded, and stepped smartly out of the room.

"Well," grunted Mustadio. "I'm awake now."

"I'm sorry," Ramza said.

"Not much to be done about it," huffed Mustadio. He pulled his gun from his pack and began cleaning it absently with an oiled cloth. "Wish I could make more bullets, but the castle smiths have been working non-stop. Think they could let me use a corner, but..." He sighed.

"You're sure you wish to take the main road?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio nodded. "Cardinal's said he upped his patrols. Baerd's men ain't gonna risk fighting the Gryphons."

Ramza wasn't so sure—a genuine Zodiac Stone was an awfully tempting prize—but he'd expressed his doubts already and saw no point in doing so again. Instead he checked his weapons—the two daggers, bow, and bastard sword he'd taken from the men he'd killed—and said, "You've taken this road before?"

Mustadio shook his head. "Not exactly, but there's only two roads out of Goug. The coastal road that leads into Lionel, and the bridge to Mullonde."

"And the coastal road leads to both Lionel and Warjilis?" Ramza asked, though he already knew the answer.

"And a lot of other places, too," Mustadio said. "I've gone to Warjilis a few times, to trade with my father—what goods we make, what we're allowed to keep, that kind of thing." As it always did, his face lit up when he spoke of his father. Ramza shared that, he supposed, and perhaps that was why he'd asked. He wanted to see Mustadio in a good mood, and to keep their atmosphere a little pleasant. He had to, when he had so many worries to trouble him.

Helping Mustadio was the right thing. He'd known it from the moment he'd seen Mustadio, fearlessly facing off with the men who intended to take him. He'd known it when the man made his cause clear—when he revealed he fought for his father. And now it was clearer still, for in spite of all they risked, father and son alike had decided that they had to keep the Stone from Baerd's hand. They had decided that to do so was worth torture, imprisonment, and death. In saving Mustadio, and in asking Ovelia for permission to travel with him, Ramza had felt the old giddy thrill of those days when he had fought without killing.

But how had those days ended? In pain, and terror, and bloodshed. In friends killing friends, in Teta tumbling madly through the air with the arrow in her throat, her blood spilling into the snow as Zeakden exploded around them. Ramza feared his elation, because he knew how it had ended before. How it could end again.

And he feared it, because Radia did not share it.

She avoided him, refused to speak with him when they were caught alone, rushed after Ovelia to serve as her escort. Ramza had barely seen Ovelia since their arrival in Lionel Castle—she was always meeting with the Cardinal, discussing what came next. There had only been time for words in passing, but at least Ovelia was still speaking with him.

Fond talk of his father, and of what they had done together, prompted Mustadio to ask Ramza questions of his own. They talked until Mustadio drifted off again, and Ramza lay in the dark room, staring at the ceiling but unable to bring himself to sleep. His thoughts were whirling, his guts dancing, his skin tingling. Too much that could go wrong. Too much that could go right.

Ramza blinked out of his reverie. He'd heard something. What had he...there it was again. The softest rapping of knuckled against his door.

He rose quietly from his bed, and crept to the door. He opened it a crack and slipped into the dimly-lit hallway, shutting it gently behind him. Then he turned, and Radia's green eyes caught him fast and would not let him go.

"You're leaving?" Radia asked.

Ramza folded his arms across his chest. He was surprised to find he was angry—a low, dull heat pulsed out of his temples and gut, making him feel warm and spiteful. He'd felt guilty before, but then Radia had avoided him for days, and only now, with his departure hours away, did she feel like he deserved her attention?

"Looks that way, doesn't it?" Ramza asked.

Radia glared at him. "You're being an ass."

"I guess you've rubbed off on me."

"Pah!" Radia scoffed. "I'm not the one who volunteered to go gallivanting off across Lionel!"

"He needs help!"

"No he doesn't!" Radia growled, cutting one hand through the air. "He's got the Cardinal backing him up."

"We both know what men like Baerd can do when they're desperate," Ramza said.

"And you're gonna stop that?" Radia asked. "All by yourself?"

"You don't think I can?" Ramza asked, and then he saw the guilty flash in Radia's eyes and felt his anger sink in upon itself in one great cold shock of hurt. "You don't think I can," he whispered.

Radia looked guiltier still. "No, I know you're...I..." Then the guilt melted into rage, as the green eyes flashed hotly. "Don't you fuckin' do that."

"Do what?" Ramza grunted.

"Make this about you!" Radia snapped. "We didn't leave my dad so you could run around playing hero! We did it to make Ovelia safe!"

"She _is_ safe!" Ramza retorted.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Radia gestured around them. "Even if we can take the Cardinal at his word, everyone who's got a shot at the throne is gunning for her head! And the Cardinal can't give her official help until he hears from Funeral! The last few days, you know what they're talking about? Just that, over and over again. How Funeral can help, how the Church can help, but what they're really asking is what she can do, to make this worth it! She's not _safe_."

Ramza felt another surge of guilt, like ants crawling along inside his throat. He swallowed to try and suppress the feeling, but it persisted. He hadn't realized...but of course things were that bad. Just because the Princess had found a safe haven didn't solve the larger problems. And what was she supposed to do, hide in this castle for the rest of her life?

But she was safer than Mustadio's father, wasn't she? And he didn't intend to leave forever. He would go with Mustadio, see him and his father safe, and return. That was what he'd promised Ovelia.

"I'm coming back," Ramza said.

"Yeah?' Radia said. "That's a promise you're gonna keep?"

Ramza felt a void open inside his head, blacking out his thoughts. The echoes and memories that had already haunted him—the memories of what had happened the last time he'd felt this righteous—hammered into him with violent force. He felt himself falling, just as Teta had fallen.

He stared at Radia, but it seemed as though she towered somewhere far above him—as though he stood at the bottom of a well, and stared up at someone so far above they might as well have been a silhouette. Her mouth was moving, but the words were faint and blurred with distance.

"...after everything...you can't...you're just..."

"You're not coming with me, are you?" Ramza asked.

Radia broke off. "What?"

"You're not coming with me."

Radia's eyes blazed hotter. "You didn't even ask me, Ramza."

"I didn't think I had to."

The green eyes blazed brighter still. "Well then fuck you. I live my life the way I want to. You think I left my dad just because? I did it for her."

"Did you?" Ramza asked. He was a little more present now, a little more aware. He knew what he intended to say, and his anger and pain made it seem like the most tempting thing in the world.

Radia blinked. "You think I fought my dad just because?"

"Isn't that what you do?" Ramza asked.

The eyes flashed wide with pain. "What?" she breathed.

"Oh, that hurts?" Ramza asked. "Did you forget the last time you ran away from him? Did you forget what happened?"

She stared at him, her anger gone, replaced by naked pain. And Ramza stood inside the abyss into which she'd thrown him, by telling him that she'd never thought him capable of anything. By telling him that he couldn't do what he wanted to do. All his newfound righteousness would fail, because he was a failure. What if she was right?

So he lashed out with all his cruelty, because it was better than dwelling on such poisonous thoughts.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Radia whispered.

"Is that really what you think of me?" Ramza demanded.

Ramza rather suspected his face looked like hers at this moment—the same hollow pain, with the vague embers of anger in the eyes.

"She asked me to be a Lioness," Radia said, in a voice so flat that it sounded broken.

Ramza stared at her. "What?"

"She..." Radia took a deep breath, and straightened up. She glared into Ramza's eyes. "She said she wanted me to join them."

Ramza's throat felt very dry. "You didn't tell me?"

Radia's mouth twisted. "I didn't...I didn't know how to...I didn't know if I even _wanted_..." Then fresh anger sparked to life in her eyes. "You didn't ask me if I wanted to come with you."

Ramza laughed. The sound seemed to scrape against his throat. "Of course you want to," she said. "Gonna try to be a Brave again."

Radia's eyes blazed with violence. "You saw the Stone!"

Hard to forget, wasn't it? That bloody glow, and the startling Stone. It had been so heavy in his hand, so terribly _real_.

"I'm not talking about the Stone," Ramza growled, trying to banish the memory. "I'm talking about _you_."

Radia's eyes blazed brighter still. "Yeah?" she said. "Like you're not rushing off to play hero?"

"What the hell are you-"

"Gotta live up to your name, right?" Radia said. "Always gotta try to be a hero, even if it always goes wrong."

The pain again, numbing his thoughts, dampening his rage. His heart was aching.

"Could be worse," Ramza managed, his voice as tight as his chest. "Could be trying to run away from my name."

Radia's eyes flashed wide. "What?" she breathed.

"Radia Gaffgarion," he said, and made it sound like a curse.

Her eyes flashed wider, hotter; her hands curled into fists as color rose in her cheeks.

"I didn't change my name," she said. Ice washed Ramza's insides. His thoughts felt jagged and sharp. She was still speaking, "I may not like it, but it's mine. I wasn't so ashamed of what I was that I had to pretend-"

Ramza turned away from her and stormed down the hall, not sure where he was going but certain that if he stayed a moment longer he might do something he regretted.

"That's right, run away!" she cried. "Isn't that what you always do!"

Something snapped inside him: Ramza felt it go. It took every ounce of willpower not to lunge towards her. His chest hurt with the effort to restrain himself.

"When are you going to turn on her, Radia?" Ramza asked. "When are you going to abandon her, like you did the Corps? Like you do everything, because nothing's ever good enough for you?"

"Oh, I'm sorry!" Radia bellowed. "Does it _offend_ you that someone could actually like themselves? That they could decide what they want, and not run away like a fucking coward?!"

"It _offends_ me!" Ramza shouted. "That you can play hero after all the fucked-up shit you've done!"

"I'm not the one playing hero!"

"Running already?" Ramza snapped his fingers. "Seems about right."

"Fuck you!" Radia shrieked, and spun away from him, stomping down the hall. Ramza stayed where he was, barely able to see, barely able to _think_. After everything they'd been through, she had the gall to be mad at him? She confirmed the dour whispers in his head—that he was just running, that he would fail, that everyone would leave him like Delita had left him if they didn't turn on him the way Dycedarg and Argus, and now after Gaffgarion's betrayal—after finding out that he had spent the last two years beneath his brother's shadow, as surely as he had spent his whole life—he had just scared away the last person he absolutely trusted.

A failure. As he had always been.

Ramza's eyes began to burn. He staggered down the hall, the opposite way that Radia had gone. Looking for an empty room where he could lay his head down, and weep for all his-

"Ramza?"

Ramza looked back over his shoulder. Mustadio was stumbling down the hall, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. His straw-blonde hair was a long, untamed mess, freed from its habitual ponytail.

"Go back to bed, Mus," Ramza said, turning away from the other man.

Mustadio didn't answer, but neither did Ramza hear the sound of his footsteps heading back down the hall.

"You do not have to come with me, Ramza."

Ramza looked back over his shoulder. Mustadio looked barely conscious, but somehow he seemed very alert and aware all the same. He was watching Ramza with a slightly bemused smile on his face.

"You have done more for me than I have any right to ask," he said. "With or without you, I will probably see my father freed. And it, ah..." He trailed off sheepishly, shrugging. "It rather sounds like you should stay."

Ramza winced. "How much did you hear?"

"You were not exactly quiet."

Ramza shook his head. His eyes were still burning, and he felt a sob building in his throat. "I'm-" He swallowed down the hitch in his voice. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have..."

Mustadio shook his head. "It is fine, Ramza. I did not mean to cause a fight, or..." Mustadio shook his head again. "I will be safe. You should stay."

Was that the right thing to do? Trust that Mustadio could handle himself? He had made it all the way to Zaland, even with powerful enemies against him. Surely he could handle walking back into the city where he'd been born. Ramza could find Radia and apologize.

And if Mustadio was wrong? If Baerd caught wind, and killed him? Would his death not be on Ramza's head? And forgetting for a moment the potential cost of doing the wrong thing, it was what Ramza wanted to do. He had spent so long obeying the orders and plans of others. He wanted to follow the promptings of his heart. He wanted to do the right thing, whatever the doubts and fears whispering in his head.

Whatever Radia might tell him.

"No," Ramza said. "You need my help. And your father needs _our_ help."

Mustadio's face suddenly looked heavy with fear, his mouth curving into a severe frown, his heavy eyebrows squatting down upon his eyes. "But what if...Ramza, what if it..."

There was a hitch in Mustadio's voice. Ramza crossed to him, and took him by the shoulder. "He'll be fine," Ramza said firmly, thinking of his father as he'd last seen him, wheezing and croaking with all his children helpless to save him. "We will make sure of it."

He had to. So many other times he'd failed—to fight for what he believed in, to save someone he cared about. Even now there was so little he could do to help Ovelia on the stage where she was forced to play, or help Delita with whatever shadowy enterprise he was entangled in, or stop all the uprisings and oppression that he had borne witness to these past two years.

But he could make sure Mustadio was safe. And he had to do it, since he knew he could.

By the time they returned to their room, the first hints of dawn were beginning to mar the darkness outside their window. Come sunrise, the gates to the Castle would open for the day's business. They grabbed their gear and headed down the servant's corridor that would exit out near the gate. When they reached its end, Mustadio gasped in surprise.

"Your Highness?" Ramza said, blinking in disbelief. "What are you-?"

Ovelia smiled sleepily, her eyes still puffy with sleep. "I wanted to catch you before you left," she said. "I'm glad I managed.

Mustadio beamed at her. "A send-off from a Princess," he said. "I'm honored, your Highness."

Ramza looked around the hall. Besides the three of them, there was no one in sight.

"I was honored to count you among my retinue, Mus," she said. "I'll pray for your father. I'll pray for you."

"Thank you, your Highness" Mustadio said, bowing his head.

Her blue eyes drifted away from Mustadio, and settled on Ramza. Ramza gazed back at her, his mind as sharp as a winter's cold in spite of how little he'd slept. None of her guards around, and she was wearing such casual clothes. She had slipped away from any potential escort to see them.

"You asked my permission to go," she said at last.

"I...yes, your Highness," Ramza replied.

"Why?" she asked.

Ramza blinked. Hadn't she already asked him this once before? Or...no, she hadn't. She had told him he had no need of her permission. She had not asked why he wanted it in the first place.

But there had been no crucial decision. He had just felt the need. He had traveled with her, protected her, killed Hokuten soldiers to save her

(for her or for Delita selfish or selfless).

"You are my Princess," Ramza said. "I was your guard. I cannot go if you won't let me."

Ovelia nodded. "I knew you understood."

Ramza blinked. "Realized what, your Highness?"

"That Lioness or no, you're one of my guard," Ovelia answered. "And that there will be a place for your here, when you return."

Ramza did not know how to explain what he felt then. If his anger and hurt had snapped something inside him when he'd argued with Radia, Ovelia's words, felt like a broken finger healed overnight, a marvelous sense of strength and relief. He felt almost dizzy with it.

"Your Highness..." he began, not sure what he meant to say.

"Stay alive, Ramza Beoulve," Ovelia said, and then offered a sheepish smile. "Your sister would kill me if anything happened to you."

Ramza managed a trembling smile. "She'd drag me back and kill me again."

She stepped past him, straight-backed in her sleeping robe, her hair mussed and her eyes still puffy with sleep, and Ramza felt sure that he'd never seen her look so regal.

Ramza and Mustadio watched her go, until she rounded a corner and vanished.

"I am glad I got to meet her," Mustadio said.

"Me too," Ramza answered, thinking of the Princess and her guards, thinking of the pain and rage in Radia's eyes, thinking of Alma's sketches and admonishments and the last words of his dead father, thinking of Delita and Teta and Argus and Beowulf, Wiegraf and Miluda and Ivan Mansel, thinking of all his mistakes and thinking that his time with Ovelia had not been one of them.

"Let's go save your father," Ramza said, and headed for the door.


	48. Chapter 47: An Unexpected Reunion

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 **Chapter 47: An Unexpected Reunion**

 _...You tread upon thin ice, Ludvich. We have not forgotten how slow you were in alerting us to the Stone in Goug—as slow as you were to tell us that you could not find it, when a single boy thwarted all your men. And now that circumstances conspire to place it back in our hands, we remind you that we have not forgotten your failures. You will deliver the Stone to us personally, and ensure that the Bunansas and their associates do not live to inform anyone of what they have seen. If you should fail, your men and your money cannot protect you. You know how far our reach extends._

 _-Burned letter recovered from the fireplace of Ludvich Baerd_

Ramza was not prepared for Goug.

He had lived among Ydoran construction all his life—the Beoulve Manor had once been the home of an Ydoran consul, and Ramza had traveled far and wide across Ivalice and seen all the ruins and remnants of that once-mighty empire. But most of what he'd seen had been the vestiges of the ancient nation—the frontier, beyond the borders of the country proper. Goug had been one of its cities—had been a place of industry, And thought it was a sunken ruin, it still retained a ghost of that former grandeur.

Hollow wrecks of metal towered above them, casting their slanted shadows over the roughshod slapdash sprawl that had grown up around them. Shacks and houses had been built up against the polished stone of broken Ydoran manors. Huge pits cratered the cityscape and the surrounding countryside, each one porous with shafts and tunnels. From one such dig site, a crew of laborers was dragging the metal prow of ship that Ramza thought must have been as big as the Beoulve Manor, when it was whole.

"-so the tunnel collapsed, but I could not forget how it looked. The way the metal gleamed, or...Ramza?"

Ramza blinked and guiltily twisted back around. Mustadio stood a little ways in front of him, as men and women carrying strange devices and bits and pieces of scrap hurried to and fro.

"Sorry," Ramza said. "What?"

Mustadio grinned. "It is quite a sight, no? The Ydorans made such wonders. As I was trying to tell you."

Ramza flushed. Mustadio's grin widened, and he took the lead, beckoning for Ramza to follow. It was nearly a week since they had left Lionel Castle, taking the winding coastal road that wound through the marshes and swamps of northwest Lionel. Ramza had spent those first few days in a melancholy funk, doubting what he was doing, hating Radia for what she'd said to him and hating himself for what he'd said to Radia.

But the closer they got to the city, the more excited Mustadio became. The excitement took the form of an almost constant stream of chatter—about the design of his pistol, and how it compared to Ydoran pistols, and Ydoran gunsmithing in general, and the different branches of gunsmithing and how those had factored into regional political differences, and how his father had led a dig that had uncovered one of the old shops that had built small airships for the rich, and-

On and and, and sometimes it was annoying when Ramza would rather be alone with his thoughts. But Mustadio's energy was infectious, and Ramza found himself fascinated in spite of himself, asking questions about Ydoran history and the nature of excavations and Mustadio's father, and soon enough his guilt was something that troubled him only in idle moments, or when he laid his head down to rest in the dark of the night and stared at the empty space in his tent and wondered if Radia would ever lay beside him again.

Mustadio shouldered his pack and led on. Goug seemed more populous than even Igros to Ramza's eyes—Church officials in fine robes, merchants and soldiers, hard-eyed men with weapons at their hips, and the babble of many accents, from Ivalice and from far beyond its borders. Everywhere were machinists. No two looked alike, or carried similar gear, but Ramza recognized them by the grease, oil, and soot that clung to their persons, and by the strange devices they carried with the same familiarity that a soldier holds his weapon, or a scribe his quill.

Still Ramza marveled. It was all so different than he had expected! The city teemed with life, excitement, and adventure! What must it have been like, to grow up in a place like this?

But it wasn't all Ydoran wonders and discoveries, was it? There were the other parts Mustadio had told him about—the constant attention of Church Inquisitors, and the fear that must tinge every new dig, if you uncovered something that contradicted official doctrine. And the predators like Baerd and his ilk, lurking in the shadows for some opportunity to strike.

And Ramza and Mustadio hoped to save Mustadio's father by pitting the one against the other.

The grim reality of their predicament brought Ramza steadily back to earth. He listened much more attentively to Mustadio, and kept wary eyes on the crowds around them, alert for any of the dangers the Cardinal had warned them about. Mustadio led them to a ramshackle lean-to built right up against the side of one of the sunken factories, and led Ramza through the creaking door.

Ramza blinked his eyes to adjust to the change of light—from streaming daylight to the dim glow of a rune-laden chandelier quite at odds with the squalid interior of the bar. Mustadio approached the bar and ordered two drinks in an undertone; Ramza automatically slapped the requested gil on the bartop, and took his drink.

"This is the right place?" Ramza murmured, eyeing the other inhabitants—all a little worn and dingy, sticking to their tables, keeping to themselves.

Mustadio nodded. "S'what the Cardinal told me," Mustadio whispered back. "We're looking for a man with a red...a red..." Mustadio trailed off and squinted at one corner of the dark room, and then his eyes widened in disbelief. "What?" he breathed.

Ramza followed his gaze. The man in the corner was dressed in soot-stained clothes as dirty as anything in this place, save for the red scarf draped around his neck. Their contact? Ramza supposed that made sense—his clothes might be filthy, but there was something in his face that stood out, even in the shadows. His brown hair was pulled back in severe ponytail, exposing a broad, heavily-lined forehead. His thick-lipped mouth was curved into a frown beneath his hooked nose. But it was the eyes that marked him out from he crowd. Everyone else in this bar had a look that was a little beaten, tired, or weary. They watched each other without interest, or stared blankly at their cups. But the man with the red scarf had eyes that glittered hungrily, avidly. Wherever they fell, they seemed to be devouring what they saw.

Mustadio crossed quickly to the man in the corner—too quickly, in an odd jerking motion. Eyes rose from around the room to follow his path, and Ramza hurried after him, unsure whether he should stop him.

The man in the corner rose. His mouth spread into a broad smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "My friends!" he exclaimed, and pulled Mustadio into an embrace. But Ramza was close enough to hear him whisper, "Don't draw attention to us!"

Mustadio stiffly allowed himself to be pulled down by the table. Ramza followed suit after a cursory handshake with the man in the red scarf.

"What are you doing here, Barich?" Mustadio whispered.

Ramza frowned. That name was familiar. Barich...where had he heard it before?

The man in the red scarf shrugged. "You were told to meet me here, weren't you?" His Lionel accent was not nearly so thick as Mustadio's—indeed, his voice was almost accentless, clean and casual.

Mustadio blanched. " _You_ arethe Cardinal's man?"

"Keep your voice down," Barich said, still smiling.

"But you want independence for Goug!"

"I still do," Barich said, and the hunger stole back into his eyes.

"You know each other?" Ramza asked, in an undertone.

Barich glanced at him. "You're the Beoulve?" Ramza hesitated—he'd spent so long shying from that name, and all its burdens—but at last he nodded. It was what the Cardinal had called him, after all.

Barich nodded in turn. "Nice to meetcha. I'm Barich Fendsor, Worked with the Bunansas a few times. He's almost as good a mahcinist as me."

"You have got it backwards!" snapped Mustadio. "And you're not answering me!"

Barich glared at Mustadio, who glared back. "Lower. Your. Voice."

Something clicked into place. Mustadio had told stories about Barich—about tearing around across the town, and wild drunken nights. They'd known each other.

"What are you doing here?" Mustadio asked.

Barich sighed. "I...got arrested."

Mustadio shook his head. "By the Inquisition?"

Barich nodded grimly. "They...they claimed the Goug Independence Coalition were heretics. That they...that..." Barich trailed off.

"I told you not to join them!" Mustadio hissed.

"I know!" Barich exclaimed. "I know. But...but I guess the Templars have been keeping an eye on things? They...intervened. Got the charges dropped, as long as I..."

Ramza frowned. "You're a Templar?" What an odd notion—those elite soldiers who answered personally to the High Priest were rarely seen beyond Mullonde unless they were escorting Church dignitaries or relics.

"Nah," Barich said. "Just a guy they can trust to give'em info."

"Info about what?" Mustadio asked.

"About what they're looking into," Barich said, and then dropped his voice lower still. "Like Baerd."

Ramza and Mustadio exchanged glances. Mustadio clearly hadn't expected to know the Cardinal's contact, and had questions burning in his eyes. But they had come here with a mission—to save Mustadio's father—and for that, they needed Barich.

"You're going to arrest him?" Mustadio asked.

"It's been arranged," Barich answered. "Didn't know who we could trust between the Grypons and the Inquisition, so the Templars are going to take him."

"The Templars?" Ramza said in surprise. Odd enough that the Templars were keeping such tabs on the Inquisition as to intervene to save Barich: now they were arresting someone in the Inquisition's stead?

Barich nodded. "A Stone's on the line," he said. "Funeral's taking no chances."

"Funeral?" Ramza repeated. "Does that mean-" But then he broke off. He didn't know what Barich had been told, and he wouldn't endanger the Princess by revealing where she was.

But Barich nodded, and said, "Times like these, direct action's needed. Like making sure our royal friend gets the protection and support she deserves."

"You know about..." Ramza trailed off and shook his head. The Cardinal had told them he intended to call on people he could trust, but he hadn't realized that extended to the Templars—and to their informants."

"Big things in motion," Barich said. "Why do you think I signed on?"

Mustadio studied Barich for a moment. Barich stared steadily back. Ramza watched the two men as his eyes flickered among the crowd, looking for anyone who might be looking too closely.

"Do we know where my father is?" Mustadio asked.

Barich nodded. "Baerd's holding him in the basement of his house. We'll free him when we take Baerd." Barich looked guilty. "He, uh...he might be in a bad way, you know."

"What do you mean?" Mustadio asked, breathless with fear.

"They...they only got your word that you're the one who hid the Stone," Barich answered. "They might've...tried to make your father talk."

Mustadio clutched at the side of the table for support, his face pale.

"Do you know that for sure?" Ramza asked quickly.

Barich shook his head. "Barely know anything," he said. "Just...just don't want you unprepared, if..."

"But he's alive?" Ramza asked, trying to give Mustadio reason to hope.

Barich nodded. "One of Baerd's men saw him two days past," Barich said. "He's alive."

Mustadio still clung to the edge of the table like a sailor to driftwood, but he seemed to loosen his grip a little, and his eyes no longer looked quite so wild.

"We have to get him out," Mustadio said.

"We will, Mus," Barich said. "Everything's ready. Templars and a handful of Inquisitors are standing by; we're gonna arrest him and drag him to Mullonde before anyone can object." He hesitated then, and added in an even lower voice. "But you know we need the Stone."

"I know," Mustadio said. "I'll take you to it."

Barich nodded, and rapped once upon the table. A man and a woman sitting on the far side of the room rose together and hurried for the door. "They're giving the order," Barich said. "Baerd will be in custody within the hour. You want to see your father the moment we have him, right?"

Mustadio nodded dumbly. Barich rose and headed for the door of the bar, beckoning for Mustadio and Ramza to follow. The man who'd risen from his table waited just outside.

"Where we headed, Mus?" Barich asked.

"My father's workshop," Mustadio answered.

The man nodded and darted away, disappearing into the crowd. Things were even busier than they had been before, machinists and merchants and workers of all stripes hurrying in a hundred different directions as squawking chocobos pulled laden carts and hovering caravans floated along established routes, with the crowds pressed thick around them. Above, the heavy grey skies looked still more leaden, and the faintest rumblings of thunder could be heard even over the noise of the city. Mustadio picked his way through the crowd, and Ramza and Barich hurried after.

Mustadio was leading them into a rather poor section of town. It rather reminded Ramza of the slums of Dorter, or the abandoned mess of buildings at the outskirts of Zaland.

"Your workshop's here?" Ramza asked.

Mustadio nodded. "When you work with explosives, your neighbors appreciate it if you keep your distance."

"That," Barich said. "And you usually know if anyone's coming."

Mustadio nodded. By now the crowds had thinned out—there were only a few scattered clusters of people bustling their way towards other buildings.

"So you were arrested?" Mustadio asked.

"Hm?" Barich was studying their surroundings, not looking at Mustadio. For the first time, Ramza noticed his hand resting on his hip, where he wore a pistol that seemed markedly different from Mustadio's.

"You were arrested," Mustadio said again.

Barich nodded. "I was."

"And the Templars offered to drop the charges of heresy," Mustadio said. "In exchange for information."

Barich's dark eyes flickered to Mustadio's back. "That's right."

"About Baerd?" Mustadio asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Aye," Barich answered.

"And what else?" Mustadio asked.

Barich did not answer. Ramza had dropped back a little, and felt his neck prickling. There was something here he didn't understand.

"What they asked of me," Barich said at last.

"How long have you been working for them?" Mustadio asked.

Barich shook his head. "Less than a year."

"So before my father was taken."

Barich didn't answer right away. "Yes," he said, so softly it was barely audible.

"You were still talking about independence when I saw you in Pisces," Mustadio said mildly. "Were you telling the Templars who else came to those meetings?"

Barich stopped walking. Mustadio stopped as well. Ramza's eyes flickered around them, wary of any hidden danger, but his gaze kept returning to the two men in front of him. Besides, there was no one left in sight: wooden huts and shacks leaned gloomily on either side of the dirt road.

"There's parts of the Church that would let us go free, Mus," Barich said.

"But there are those parts that want to keep us, no?" Mustadio asked. "And perhaps those who know that people who talk of freedom might not be friendly to the Church if they ever got it?"

Barich shook his head. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Perhaps not," Mustadio said. "But a thought occurs to me. It is a nasty thought, I admit, but one I am having trouble dispensing with. I wonder just how many of our friends you met with, and then told the Templars or the Inquisitors or..." Mustadio managed a wavering smile. "Well, I suppose it does not matter who you told. It is the telling I object to."

For a moment, Barich was silent. Mustadio's face was pale, and his hands were shaking, but his eyes were firm. Ramza did not know what to say or do, but he trusted Mustadio here.

"I'm doing what I have to do, to make sure Goug goes free," Barich said. "Just like you're doing what you have to do, to see your father safe."

"I understand," Mustadio said. "But I do not wish to deliver the Stone into your hands. You have shown yourself to be unworthy of trust."

Barich scoffed. "I'm all you've got, Mus."

"I do not think so," Mustadio answered. "I will retrieve the Stone, and take it to the Cardinal myself. My friend has already promised to return to the Princess. Once I have seen my father safe, I will do the same."

"A fine plan," drawled a chipper, reedy voice. "But I am afraid _I_ will be taking the Stone to the Cardinal."

Ramza and Mustadio turned to the source of the voice. Barich's voice, low and bitter, murmured, "Drop your weapons."

Ramza glanced back at him. Barich had drawn the bronze pistol from his hip, with its wider barrel that flared out towards the end. He had pressed it against Mustadio's head, and Mustadio stood frozen.

"It didn't have to be like this," Barich said.

"Whatever you need to tell yourself," Mustadio grunted.

Barich grimaced, and his dark eyes flickered towards Ramza. "I told you to drop your weapons."

Ramza remembered the battle against Mustadio's attackers in Zaland. He had managed without weapons back then; now he was armed. Surely he could-

"Mustadio," Barich said. "Why don't you tell him what kind of gun I'm holding?"

Mustadio's nervous eyes darted towards Ramza. "Spell gun," he said. "Ydoran make. It...it hurt, if he pulls that trigger."

"Bet your ass," Barich growled. "Now drop your weapons."

"You'd better do as the man says," chuckled that same reedy voice. "You're already surrounded."

Ramza gave up, reaching for his belt, his mind racing, wondering if he could do as he'd done the last time Mustadio had been taken hostage, go for his weapons and fight his way free. He risked a glance, and felt that hope melting away. Other faces had appeared—men and women in rough clothes, with weapons in their hands and on their hips.

Only one of the people surrounding them was unarmed. He was distinguished not only by his lack of weapon but also the fine quality of his clothes—a large robe of yellow with a green border, that bulged here and there thanks to the man's corpulent weight. His greying hair was thin atop his round head, and beady dark eyes glittered in the folds of his soft, pale face.

He nodded as Ramza's weapons hit the ground, followed shortly by his pack. "Good, good," the fat man sighed. "So much easier this way. We've had quite enough trouble, haven't we, Mr. Bunansa?"

Mustadio's jaw clenched, and he did not look at the fat man with the thin hair. "Not enough trouble for you, Mr. Baerd," he whispered.

The fat man chuckled again. Ramza felt his insides crawling, and snapped a furious look towards Barich. "You're working for him?"

Barich pursed his lips and shook his head. Standing above the, Baerd laughed harder. "No, no, no," Baerd said cheerily. "We share the same employer."

Ramza stared at the man standing above him. His mind felt like was stumbling, thoughts in freefall. He couldn't bring himself to understand, even after Ludvich had confessed. Had told him exactly what he intended to do with the Stone once he claimed it.

 _Because Delita was taking her across the bridge because he didn't care that we were going to see the Cardinal and the Cardinal wants the Stone and the Cardinal has the Princess and the Lionesses and Radia oh God oh God oh God what have I done_

He saw the same dawning horror in Mustadio's eyes, and for a moment they exchanged glances and Ramza saw fire there, anger and resignation, because both had were grateful to Ovelia and she deserved the best from them and maybe one or both of them would die but they had to try and get free. Ramza tensed, watching the men and women fanning out around him, and then-

And then two men stumbled into a view. One was a solid brick of a man who wore a tattered vest over his bare muscular chest, who had one meaty hand on the other man's shoulder. This other man had his arms tied behind his back and was rather slender, his greasy curtain of dirty-blonde hair hanging around his face, one eye swollen with bruising. But the other eye was bright and blue and familiar. It looked so much like Mustadio's eye.

"Father!" cried Mustadio, and made a jerking motion towards him.

"Don't make me do it!" Barich shouted, digging the barrel of the gun into Mustadio's skull.

Everything froze again. Tears welled up in Besrodio Bunansa's eye. "My son," he croaked. "I am sorry."

Ludvich Baerd clapped his hands together. "Father and son, reunited!" he said. "It warms the heart, does it not?" He glanced towards Barich. "The Stone?"

"He says it's at their old workshop," Barich said.

"Well, then!" Baerd said. "Lead on, Mustadio." His dark eyes glittered. "Or shall we be forced to find other ways to ask you?"

The man holding Besrodio tightened his grip on the man's shoulder. Besrodio flinched.

Mustadio's eyes were wild and pain and fear. His gaze flicked between Besrodio, Ramza, Ludvich, and Barich. At last, they settled on Barich.

"You fucking monster," he hissed.

Barich shrugged. "Just doing what I gotta, Mus."

Baerd sighed and nodded. The muscular man holding Besrodio socked him in the back. Besrodio fell to his knees with a squeal of pain.

"No!" Mustadio bellowed, and jerked towards his father again. Barich snapped the gun up, and brought its handle down upon Mustadio's head: the blonde man collapsed with a cry.

"I do so detest violence, Mustadio!" Baerd called. "But I am willing to resort to it if you leave me no choice. And between your father and your friend, I've no shortage of targets."

Ramza held himself very still as Baerd's men huddled closer. His weapons were on the ground in front of him. There were at least a dozen men around them, all with their own weapons. He could strike at Ludvich, or at Besrodio's captor, or at Barich...but no matter how fast he moved, someone would die. Maybe all of them.

And even if he could save them, what would it do for Ovelia? For Alicia, Lavian, and Agrias? For Radia?

He had to wait for his chance. He had to hope a better moment would come. He would have to wait as the world crumbled around him, and his hopes of righteousness collapsed with them.

"Mustadio," Ramza said, in a shaking voice. "We don't have a choice."

Mustadio lifted his head. A little rivulet of blood dripped down from a cut in his forehead and ran along his nose.

"Alright," he grunted, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

"Tie their hands!" Baerd called.

The men drew closer. Ramza closed his eyes.


	49. Chapter 48: The Jaws of Lionel

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 **Chapter 48: The Jaws of Lionel**

Though it made her feel quite the ingrate, Ovelia was beginning to dread her meetings with the Cardinal.

She was well aware of the delicate position her host was in. Old laws ostensibly restricted the Church's immediate influence to Mullonde, with Lionel having slowly become an extension of the Church through tradition, convenience, and delicate negotiations with the Crown. Ivalice might be the home of the Glabados Church, but challenging royal will for the sake of a Princess with no allies was a difficult prospect. And the Cardinal, gracious as he was, wanted to make sure that Ovelia had input on what was to come. He wanted to make sure her thought and needs were taken into account.

Ovelia appreciated all this, but it didn't make her feel any less annoyed.

Since the first day she'd come here, she'd had regular meetings with the Cardinal. They would meet in the same sitting room where the Cardinal and first hosted her and her retinue, and together would pore over correspondence with nobles and maps of Ivalice and the surrounding kingdoms and try to puzzle out a path to survival. But by the third stay there was nothing new to discuss, so with every meeting they simply retread the same tired paths, the same discussions, until Ovelia felt her head pounding and her vision going vague with exhaustion.

"It is possible the Ordallians would offer you safe haven," the Cardinal mused. "But I can imagine any number of scenarios where they would trade you for some concession from the Queen."

"Of course," Ovelia said dully, in part because it seemed to her they'd had this discussion three or four times before.

"Given the Queen's erratic behavior, we cannot count on a declaration from the Church to permanently protect you," continued the Cardinal, as he'd said some half dozen times. "And-"

On and on. Discussing if it might be possibly to play Zalbaag Beoulve against Dycedarg Beoulve and thereby weaken Larg, or perhaps to appeal to Count Orlandeau and thereby convince his liege lord Goltanna to withdraw his threats against Ovelia, speculating on whether Duke Barinten might be willing to abandon his long neutrality, discussing chancellors and counts and viscounts and dukes and barons and more, noble families she'd half-forgotten, painting a picture of Ivalice as a place where you could not trust the ground you walked upon as she again reckoned with the sheer stunning weight of her enemies and grappled with the notion that there might be no path that really guaranteed her life, on and on and on.

Lionel Castle felt like a prison, as surely as Orbonne had when she was young.

"I am sorry, your Excellency," Ovelia said, when she could take no more. "Might we stop for a moment? I'm rather tired."

"Of course, your Highness!" the Cardinal exclaimed. "I apologize, I..." He trailed off and looked away. There was an odd look in his eyes. "Politics has never been my forte."

"No?" Ovelia said, reaching for her wine. "You're good at it."

"Crueller words were never spoken," the Cardinal said, putting a hand to his breast in mock offense. Ovelia chuckled, and the Cardinal's momentary good humor died. "I'm really not, you know. I have learned something of the game out of necessity, but I have ever been a man of action. Perhaps you may not understand, but sometimes..." He sighed again. "Sometimes I long for the War."

At first, Ovelia felt a twinge of disgust. Longing for war? What kind of madman did such a thing, especially given all the devastation the 50 Years' War had brought to their kingdom? But then a thought occurred to her—the same thought had warmed her when she and Ramza had sat together outside the farmhouse in north Lionel.

"For the certainty of it?" Ovelia asked. "The feeling that...that what you're doing matters. That you're deciding your fate."

The Cardinal's eyes widened in astonishment. "I must confess, your Highness," he said. "I would not expect someone of your station to understand."

Ovelia shrugged. "I wouldn't have, before..."

Before the assassins at Orbonne, and Delita's kidnapping. Before the thrill of life beyond stone walls, where by her own will and the will of her friends they eluded capture and decided for themselves what the future held. Be that fighting her own father, like Radia, or turning her back on her friend, like Ramza, or even rescuing a man to help him save his father.

"Have we had any word of them?" Ovelia asked.

The Cardinal blinked. "Hm?"

"Ramza and Mus."

"Ah." The Cardinal shook his head. "Not yet, but that is to be expected. I merely sent my orders, along with instructions to limit correspondence. The less widespread my orders are, the less chance Baerd will have to avoid capture."

Ovelia supposed that was true, but she still hated to wait like this. She felt the same tension among her guards. She'd seen fairly little of them over the past several days—at the Cardinal's request, they had joined the Castle's guard rotation, in the hopes that if there were traitors among the guards they might catch them out—but whenever Ovelia saw them she sensed their impatience and dread. Agrias seemed more dour than ever, and Alicia and Lavian seemed always to be talking in hushed whispers. Even Radia, who had been a bit of a bitch since Ramza had declared his intentions to leave, seemed at every idle moment to be staring into the distance, as though searching for some glimpse of what had become of them.

"I know I have already thanked you, Your Excellency-" Ovelia began.

The Cardinal waved one hand dismissively. "Please, your Highness. I have done only what my conscience tells me—at least, as much as political necessity permits." The old darkness hung heavy across his face, and he glowered off to one side. "It is irksome to be so bound when I should be free to strike in righteous retribution, but as I said, I have had to learn diplomacy."

Ovelia nodded. "I understand," she said. All this repetitive reviewing of their political circumstances left her feeling just as frustrated, as she saw how limited her options were.

"It maddens you, does it not?" the Cardinal asked. Ovelia looked back up, found that his eyes had grown darker, his face heavier. "It seems almost the product of divine will, that you should be rendered so powerless. That for all your resources, you cannot make restitution. That you cannot have _retribution_."

There was something powerful about the Cardinal now, like a shadow that radiated out from his eyes, and made his human form seem fragile, like a shell about to crack. Ovelia felt a pang of fear she couldn't quite explain.

"You'll forgive me, your Excellency," she said, in a voice that was too high and thin, like fragile glass on the edge of shattering beneath a careless hand. "Those hardly sound like godly words."

The Cardinal smiled, and the impression of inhuman power was amplified. That smile seemed to pull something from the contours and lines in his face, darken them so he seemed less a man of flesh and more a thing of carved obsidian. "Ah, but I believe in the Saint, your Highness," he said. "I am simply frustrated to see his vision gone so awry...and frustrated, too, to be so powerless to fix it."

For a moment, Ovelia was huddling in her chair, because she did not like what she saw on the Cardinal's face (or was it the Cardinal's face? It seemed so different now, a stranger's face, nothing like the man she'd met, the man she'd hoped could save her). Then the moment passed, and it was just a man in front of her, blinking sheepishly.

"I apologize, your Highness," he murmured. "As I said, this is all rather frustrating."

Ovelia nodded, though her heart was still beating so fast in her chest that her hands felt weak. The Cardinal poured himself a glass of wine, and Ovelia remembered the one she still held, and lifted it in shaking hands to her lips.

The Cardinal set his own drink down, and stared at it for a moment. "It occurs to me," he mused. "That there is an option we haven't discussed."

"I doubt that, your Excellency," she said, trying for the same dry voice she used with Radia.

The Cardinal offered her a flickering smile. "I concede that we have been quite exhaustive looking for support to guarantee your survival. But I do not believe we have been so exhaustive in..." The Cardinal trailed off, and stared down into his cup.

In spite of herself, Ovelia was curious. "In what, your Excellency?" she asked.

The Cardinal hesitated a moment longer, then lifted his eyes to her. "Why should you not sit upon the Throne?"

It felt as though Ovelia's mind had missed a step, and was caught in that lurching panic that separates a quick recovery upon the stairs from a sudden, painful fall. "I'm sorry?" she said, barely aware she was speaking.

"Well, consider!" the Cardinal exclaimed. "Your claim to the throne, by blood and law, is strong. You are the sister of our last king, and his adopted daughter. You are more senior than your nephew."

"But he's the Crown Prince," Ovelia said automatically, though her mind was still stuttering along.

"Well, perhaps that's so," the Cardinal admitted. "But he is a child yet. It will be nearly a decade before he is ready to claim the throne, and in the meantime who vies for the regency? The Queen? Prince Larg? Duke Goltanna? None has a claim so strong as yours."

The ideas were jagged, scraping against Ovelia's find. What in the Saint's name was the Cardinal talking about? Ovelia was a pawn at best, an inconvenience at worst. She had been a bargaining chip for royal power, until the Queen had seen her as a threat. Her only hope was to keep herself alive, to find a way of putting herself permanently beyond the Queen's grasp. None of those plans involved challenging Louveria, in all her frosty malevolence. How could she? Would she do as Louveria had done, and seek her rival's death? Would she stand indifferent and watch as Louveria pleaded for her life, before the headman's axe fell? Would she stare into Louveria's dead eyes, and know herself free?

Disgust and longing mingled in a nauseous mixture in her stomach. Ovelia swallowed against the thickening saliva in her mouth. "I cannot claim the throne," she whispered.

"It tempts, does it not?" the Cardinal asked. "To restore your rightful place, and lay low your enemies."

"They have armies," Ovelia said, and realized she was no longer questioning the 'why', but instead considering the 'how.'

"So they do," the Cardinal conceded. "But perhaps you may find your own?"

"I...I don't..." Ovelia shook her head.

"If the Church speaks on your behalf?" the Cardinal asked, and there was a fervent note in his voice. "If we call upon the faithful, and our allies? If we follow God's will, and see him restored at last to-"

"I think that's enough," said a deep, cold voice, and ice stole up Ovelia's spine. She whirled towards the door to the study, and with a little scream threw herself from the chair, scurrying to the Cardinal's side of the desk. She remembered too well the craggy face, the mane of greying hair and those terrible flint eyes. She remembered his threats and unshakable confidence, as he had commanded the men who had kidnapped her.

"That's him!" she shouted. "One of my kidnappers! Cardinal, he...he..."

She stared in disbelief at the Cardinal, calm as could be, barely looking at her. In fact, he was staring directly at the man across the room.

"We do not need her willing," the hard-eyed man said.

"But a willing ally is more useful than an unwilling one," the Cardinal answered.

"You waste time."

"I had time to waste."

"What are you...what are you saying?" Ovelia asked.

From outside, she heard an explosion. She looked up in terror, fearing some new attack. The hard-eyed man cursed quietly. "I though we could take her guards without a fight."

"I am surprised you could not manage," the Cardinal said.

Ovelia's mind had been stuttering along, trying to keep up with the Cardinal's strange offer. Now knowledge flashed into her mind with terribly clarity, lightning illuminating a nightmare.

Three different groups had made for Orbonne, the night she had been kidnapped. The first had been the men in their Nanten cloaks, trying to storm the Monastery's front doors. The second had been the assassins who had come in through the sewers with their murderous blades in hand. The third had been Delita, whisking her away from friend and foe alike. But how had Delita entered? Unlike the assassins, he had not been wet from the rain, and her guards had held the front door.

Dimly, she recalled the dizzy whirl of agonized memories, as Delita had dragged her half-conscious through the rear door of the Monastery. Dimly, she recalled that door was bound by ancient magic, which only a member of the Church might have known. Dimly, she realized that from the first, their hand had been obvious, and she had been too much a fool to see it.

"Delita works for the Church," she said, in a small, weak voice. " _You_ work for the Church."

The hard-eyed man arched his bushy eyebrows, and glanced at the Cardinal. The Cardinal chuckled. "She is quite intelligent," the Cardinal said.

"That may be more hindrance than help," the hard-eyed man replied.

Ovelia stared between them, her head spinning. The hard-eyed man stood in the only door to this place, and wore a sword upon his hip. The Cardinal held no weapon, but Ovelia had no way to threaten him—there were no weapons near at hand, and even if there had been she had no faith that she could wield them well enough to free herself.

"Ah," said a familiar, cheerful voice, with its hint of a Limberry brogue. "How nice to see you again, your Highness."

Geoffrey Gaffgarion ambled into view, his patchwork mesh of armor rattling a little with every step. Ovelia gaped at him. It felt as though a hole had opened up in her stomach, and all her feelings were being drained down into it, leaving her empty.

"Her guards?" the hard-eyed man asked, glaring at Gaffgarion.

"Cannot help her," Gaffgarion answered.

The Cardinal rose, and turned to face her. He was smiling pleasantly. "You already know Geoffrey Gaffgarion, your Highness. May I present as well Vormav Tengille, Knight-Captain of the Templars?"

Knight-Captain of the Templars. Sole true military authority in the Glabados Chruch. A man who owed allegiance directly to Marcel Funeral.

She had walked into the hands of the men who had sought her all along. She had chosen the walls that now closed in around her.


	50. Chapter 49: An Unexpected Rescue

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 **Chapter 49: An Unexpected Rescue**

 _The difference between the Vampire Knight and the Mage Masher may seem academic (if you'll pardon the pun), but through my research I have discovered the two arts are really quite distinct. The techniques of the Draining Blade are fundamentally designed to appropriate magical energy on the behalf of the wielder. Careful training and discipline is required, and a potent magical field besides. The techniques of the colloquial Mage Mashers required even more careful training, but very little magic on the part of their users. Mage Mashers were adroit at creating feedback loops in the fields of their enemies, directing them inwards to weaken them. Such elite troops were trained to oppose enemy mages, but were largely disbanded in the latter years of the Ydoran Empire, after a number of highly-publicized rebellions and assassinations where the talents of the Mashers made them hard to put down. There are some who theorize that Ajora himself may have had training as a Mage Masher, but these reports are at odds with the considerable magical powers he was supposed to have wielded besides..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Letter to the Professor of Ydoran Military Arts at Gariland"_

"I admit, I am impressed," Baerd said, looking around the wrecked workshop. Holes had been smashed into the walls; an anvil by the furnace had been split in two: papers had been tossed and shredded, and the floor crunched underfoot with broken glass. "We searched this place from top to bottom, and found no sign of the Stone."

Mustadio did not speak. Blood coiled on the corner of his mouth, where one of Baerd's men had struck him when he hadn't answered fast enough. Besrodio sagged against one wall, with his muscular captor near at hand. Barich and Baerd's men were scattered around the room, weapons in hand, all faintly damp from the miserable drizzle that had begun just as they had reached the spacious warehouse that held Besrodio Bunansa's workshop.

Ramza stood in the back, his hands bound in front of him, watching these events with dispassionate curiosity. He should be making a plan. He should be watching his enemies, searching for signs of weakness, for a moment to steal the advantage. But it was so very hard to think—of the danger that surrounded them, or the one that stalked Ovelia, Radia, Agrias, Alicia, and Lavian. Things had gone so catastrophically wrong. Ovelia had led them into one trap, and Ramza had walked into a different one, and now who knew what fresh danger might fall upon them?

It all felt too much, an overwhelming tide that threatened to drown him. So Ramza had taken a step away from the pounding terror and despair, away from his feelings. He watched, as though what happened in front of him had nothing to do with him.

When Mustadio still did not speak, Baerd gestured nonchalanatly, and the muscular man twisted Besrodio's bound wrists so that Besrodio gave a whimpering scream. Mustadio flinched upright. "Please stop!" he beggged

Baerd gestured again, and the man relented; Besrodio sagged against the wall once more. "I do not wish to resort to violence," Baerd said. "But if you wish to keep your father alive, you will respond promptly."

"You did not-!" Mustadio began, and then closed his eyes. The blood on his head had dried to a sticky maroon. "What do you want me to say?"

"Where you hid the Stone," Baerd said.

Mustadio opened his eyes and stared at Baerd.

"No, Mus," his father groaned, and the muscular man slammed him against the wall.

"Keep quiet, Besrodio," Baerd said, without looking at Mustadio's moaning father. "This is between me and your son."

Mustadio stared at Baerd for several long seconds. The tension in the room thickened and stretched. Baerd sighed and made to life his hand; Mustadio flinched, and jerked his head towards the bronze furnace set against the wall, with its chimney reaching up through the roof. "There," he said.

Baerd's thin eyebrows arched. "We searched the furnace."

"Not the furnace," Mustadio said. "The chimney. On the left side."

Baerd glanced around the room. All his men looked as nonplussed as he did.

"How would we have missed that?" Baerd asked.

Mustadio shrugged. "It is on oiled hinges," he answered. "Have to push it in twice to get the catch to release."

Baerd pursed his lips. "Clever." He moved towards the furnace and peered into its dark interior. "Very clever," he said, his voice echoing. "Perhaps _too_ clever."

Mustadio stiffened. "What do you mean?" he asked, too quickly.

Baerd smiled. "Well," he said. "If you hid it so cleverly, why would you not set a trap? Say, gunpowder that detonates if not disarmed just so?"

Mustadio shook his head. "I didn't."

"Well, then you won't mind if your father does the opening, will you?" Baerd asked. He nodded towards the musucular man, who kicked Besrodio behind the knees and dragged him stumbling towards the furnace. Mustadio stood stock-still, white-faced and trembling.

"I'll do it."

The eyes in the room turned towards Ramza. He didn't understand why at first, because he hadn't realized he had spoken.

"I'll do it," he said again, conscious of it this time, and just like that he was back in the room, just like that he was back to clammy skin and a racing heart and the despair and fear of having walked into a room and come face-to-face with your own death.

He was going to die here. And that galled him plenty, made a pit open up in his stomach that seemed to suck at his guts, made his heart ache with the fear, but worse was the thought of what might befall Ovelia and Agrias, Alicia and Lavian, Mustadio and Besrodio and _Radia_.

If only he'd stayed at the Castle. Maybe he could have saved her. At the very least, he could have died at her side.

He walked towards the furnace as though in a dream. He raised his bound hands, and after a moment's consideration Baerd nodded, and a knife sawed through the knotted rope. Ramza reached up inside the furnace, feeling the sticking soot dusting against his fingers, prodding tentative fingers against the wall...

There. A section of it sank beneath his fingers. He hesitated, remembering what Mustadio had said—press it twice to release the catch. And perhaps the explosion? Would the force snap his fingers, char his flesh?

Electric terror radiated out from a pinprick of pain in his his back. He glanced over his shoulder, and found that the knife that had cut his bonds was prodding against his back. Ramza closed his eyes and pressed again. The stone pushed in beneath his fingers, then sprang loose. Ramza stood frozen; he sensed by the weight of the tension on his shoulders a similar immobility behind him.

"Well?" Baerd asked, in a high and stringy voice.

Ramza reached past where the stone pnael had been, and felt cool glass beneath his fingers. He hesitated, then wrapped his fingers around it, and pooled it out into the dim interior of the workshop. The orange Stone did not glow as the Cardinal's had, nor did it carry the same weight; indeed, it felt almost absurdly light in his soot-stained hand, so fragile that it might break at any moment. But the Taurus symbol upon its front was unmistakable.

There was a sigh of relief that seemed to encompass every inhabitant in the room except for Ramza, Mustadio, and Besrodio. Barich, his gun holstered at his side once more, strode towards Ramza and plucked the Stone from his hand. He examined it closely, frowning.

"So light," Barich murmured.

"Barich," Baerd growled. "We agreed I would be the one to return it."

Barich shrugged, and tossed it nonchalantly towards Baerd. Baerd fumbled with it, gasping, his face flushed and sweaty. "Watch it, you fool!" barked Baerd.

"Auracite doesn't break that easy," grunted Barich. "You've got what you wanted."

Baerd held the Stone delicately between his stubby fingers. "Yes," he whispered. "I have."

"Good," Barich said. "Then I'll be taking the Bunansas into my custody."

Silence in the room. Baerd looked up, frowning. "Come again?"

"We need good machinists for our work in the Archipelago," Barich said. "I already spoke with the Bishop-"

"No," Baerd said.

Silence again. Everyone seemed to be clutching their weapons a little tighter.

"I'm sorry?" Barich said slowly.

"I don't care who you've spoken with," Baerd said. "I have my instructions"

"And I have mine," Barich said.

"Instructions?" Baerd laughed. "Let me guess, my friend. You spoke to your superiors and told them that the Bunansas could be useful and got permission to recruit them for your special project. All well and good, but the Cardinal gave me orders and I intend to follow them."

Barich nodded slowly. His fingers curled and uncurled at his sides, dangerously close to his pistol. "You're crossing the Inquisition."

"I don't think I'm crossing anyone," Baerd said. "Except for a no-name machinist who thinks he can throw around the names of his friends to get what he wants. And as long as I put the Stone in their hands, I don't think they'd care if I spilled your blood here. Do you?"

Baerd was smiling pleasantly. Barich was stony-faced. All Baerd's armed men leaned a little closer, their weapons ready—including the man who had held the knife against Ramza's back.

Barich looked over his shoulder to Mustadio. "I'm sorry," he said.

Mustadio stared straight ahead. "Do not worry," Mustadio said. "I did not expect anything from you."

Barich closed his eyes, and shouldered his way past Baerd and out into the hissing rain.

"I do apologize," Baerd said. "But you have put our mutual friends in a very delicate position, and they intend to make sure you pose no threat to them." His eyes glittered, and his smile darkened. "I do detest the sight of violence, but I would be lying if I said I do not derive some small pleasure from thinking of giving you your due recompense for the trouble you've caused me."

Mustadio glared at Baerd. "No less than you deserved."

"Funny," Baerd said. "I was about to say the same."

He left the room, walking out into the rain with his Stone in hand. Mustadio shouted, stepped towards him as the man and woman guarding him tried to pull him back. For that moment, all eyes were on the two struggling people near the center of the room.

Ramza was still heavy with fear. His righteousness was as useless now as it had been during the fight against the Corps. It had led him here, away from Ovelia and Radia and the Lionesses. Perhaps it was already too late—perhaps some other trap had been sprung, and Ovelia and the women sworn to guard her were dead. Perhaps even if there was a chance to save them, there was no hope of fighting his way free of this room—and, even if he alone could escape, he could save the Bunansas.

But he would not save anyone standing frozen here, as blades were drawn across their throats.

All eyes went to the two struggling in the center of the room. That included the man holding the knife, standing a little ways in front of Ramza. And as Mustadio struggled, there was a flash of lightning, and a bone-shaking crack of thunder, and Ramza took that as a sign and moved. He hammered his fists into the back of the man's head, and as he crumpled to the floor Ramza snatched the knife from his insensate fingers and rose to his feet.

The razor calm that he had learned on other battlefields filled him now, because there was a fight to be won and Ramza intended to win it, odds be damned, so he pivoted on his heel as shouts rose up from a dozen throats. The muscular man holding Besrodio was fumbling for the knife at his own belt, and Besrodio was struggling in his grasp, and Ramza let his stolen knife fly and after what had happened with Mustadio Ramza had practiced, trying to feel the weight of the knife and control the spin of the blade and he had not had much time but he had gotten better, and the knife flew true and buried itself in the muscular man's shoulder.

The muscular man roared in pain as Besrodio tumbled free of his grasp, and Ramza was already turning because he knew he couldn't save everyone but he intended to try and for the moment he thought Besrodio was as safe as any of them were. Across the room, Mustadio had just headbutted a woman so the top of his head and her nose were both a bloody mess, and an archer standing behind them had pulled and leveled an arrow—not as Mustadio, but at Ramza.

Ramza dove as the arrow whispered by above him, shattered glass tinkling beneath his shoulders and digging into his palms before he somersaulted to his feet besides the broken anvil. As he rose he was already grappling for the sundered slab of weighty iron, pivoting on his heel like he was trying to throw a discus, arms and shoulders straining against the back-breaking weight, garbling nonsense syllables as he twisted. The anvil hurtled through the air and slammed down hard in the thick of a pack of Baerd's men, who scattered with startled yells.

His heart pounded in his chest. His throat felt hot, his mouth dry. Maybe he would die today, but he would die fighting.

He moved towards the men he'd scattered with his thrown anvil, leapt towards a fallen sword at the same time as its owner moved to scoop it up. They crashed together in a tackling, thrashing mess, scrabbling for the sword, clawing at each other.

And then there was a scream.

Ramza jerked away, sword in hand, eyes raking the room. Mustadio had fallen, and men and women surrounded him with weapons in hand. But by the door, the archer who had loosed an arrow at Ramza was falling with blood upon his back, as a man stepped through the door and even after everything that had happened Ramza found he could still be surprised.

The man storming through the door with a sword in either hand was blonde, though that fact was obscured by the heavy cloak he wore with the hood pulled tight. Likewise obscured was his face—Ramza could just make out a jutting jaw, a prominent cliff of a nose, and a flash of cocky blue eyes. The way he moved was unfamiliar, too—brutal efficiency, with the faintest shimmer along the mismatched blades he held in either hand (one long and thin, almost like a fencing foil, the other short and broad, like a butcher's cleaver).

But even if it had been two years—even if the glimpses of the face Ramza saw were free of acne, and looked much older than he should have—he could still remember his friend.

"Beowulf?" he whispered in disbelief.

"Move, Ramza!" shouted Beowulf, and Ramza moved, and for a moment he wasn't sure where he was, _when_ he was. Were these men and women in front of him Baerd's, or believers in the Death Corps? Was he a mercenary whose hands were soaked in blood, or a child dreaming of a bloodless victory?

It lasted only a moment, before his sword rammed through the woman standing above Mustadio. But the ghost of that moment hung heavy with him. The ghost of who he had been.

They lunged away from each other without word or gesture, Ramza twisting around and bounding across the room. Besrodio was crouching in a corner, his teeth bared as his muscular captor staggered towards him, clumsily swinging a knife as blood seeped from the blade buried in his shoulder. He saw Ramza from the corner of his eye, twisted with his knife in hand, tried to drive him away with a serious of ungainly jabs, but Ramza ducked low and slashed high, tearing a bloody wound from groin to sternum, and the muscular man collapsed in a wide-eyed mewl of pain.

Ramza turned again, moving fast, _thinking_ fast. This was like the fight to rescue Mustadio, the same old righteous warmth, except with Beowulf here that warmth was so hot it felt like he might melt from the inside but he wouldn't, he wouldn't, because he felt so much stronger, so much faster, so much surer. It was like seeing Delita again, except where questions had hung thick about Delita like cobwebs the sheer shocking surprise of Beowulf's unexpected intrusion into the scene had blasted away anything but hope.

Because alone, with two bound men, Ramza felt doomed to fail. But with Beowulf...!

"Run!" cried a man with his sword in hand, slipping past Beowulf and towards the open door to the workshop, but before he could quite make it outside there was a flash and a roar as golden fire exploded outwards and the man felt back, charred and screaming, as a man in a red scarf walked in with gun in hand. Barich's hands moved, deftly sliding out one block of smoking metal and snatching another from his pocket, and when a woman with a spear drove towards him he leveled his loaded gun once more and pulled the trigger. The explosion this time was closer, brighter, fiercer, the sound of it enough to deafen Ramza from across the room, and when the blackened corpse hit the floor there was no screaming.

It was over then. Alone, Ramza, Mustadio, and Besrodio had managed to hold for a moment against Baerd's men; against Beowulf, whose shimmering blades brought men to their knees before he ever slashed them open, and Barich, whose gun killed so effortlessly, there was nowhere to run, and no hope in fighting.

Beowulf and Barich entered the room, and within two minutes every one of Baerd's men was dead. Ramza fished his blade from the back of the man he'd first attacked—the man from whom he'd wrested the knife—and stood up. Barich stood in the door: Beowulf stood above the bodies of the men he'd slain, his strange swords slick with blood.

"What the hell?" Mustadio mumbled, from his place against a far wall, with blood—his and others—crusting his face.

"Cut him loose!" Ramza called, riding that same strange, warm wave, and at the same time he turned around and slice neatly through Besrodio's bonds, helping the older man to his feet and then back to the center of the room.

"You've gotten better, Ramza," Beowulf said, with a cheery grin.

"So have you, Wulfie," Ramza answered, amazed at how easy it was to fall into the old rhythms of banter.

Beowulf laughed. "Wulfie! Haven't heard that one in..." He trailed off, and his face darkened a little. "Too long," he murmured.

Barich moved towards Mustadio: Mustadio, chafing his wrists, snapped his fists up. "Do not come near me."

Barich rolled his eyes, waving his gun casually from side to side. "What, you gonna punch a spell out of the way?"

"I might punch _you_ out of the way," Mustadio growled.

"I saved you and your father," Barich snapped. "What more do you-"

"Saved us?" Mustadio cried, stepping towards the other man. "From a trap you shoved us into!"

Barich grimaced. "It was the only way-"

"It was NOT!" roared Mustadio, stomping one foot upon the debris-laden floor. "You did not have to tell Baerd, or the Church! You _chose._ " Mustadio's voice dropped, and his eyelids fluttered closed. He looked very tired. "And now they have the Stone. And the Princess..."

Mustadio trailed off and stared blankly at his feet for a moment. Barich stared helplessly at him, trying and failing to speak. Then Mustadio crossed to his father and embraced him, and they clung to each other with desperation, as though afraid one or the other might fade away at any moment. Ramza felt a pang somewhere in his heart.

"How long's it been since you've seen your dad?" Ramza asked, in a low voice.

He regretted the question almost at once. Even from the corner of his eye, he could see Beowulf flinch; when Ramza turned to face him, he found the angular face wracked with pain. "Too long," mumbled Beowulf.

"I'm sorry," Ramza said. And that was twice now that he had accidentally hurt his friend. "What are you doing here, Beowulf?"

"Came to rescue you," Beowulf said.

"I appreciate it," Ramza answered. "But how'd you know I needed rescuing?"

Beowulf shook his head. "There's things I can't say. But, well..." He gestured vaguely at Barich with one of his strange swords. "Lotta different factions looking to claim power. That includes the Church...though we all have different ideas of _how_ we want power, and what that power's for."

Barich was still staring at the Bunansas, but he came back to himself and turned to face Ramza and Beowulf. "Don't lie to the boy," Barich sneered. "You're not working for the Church anymore."

"And you are?" Beowulf asked.

Barich shrugged. "A powerful Church has no reason to fear Goug."

"And saving the Bunansas serves the Church how?" Beowulf asked.

Barich's face reddened. "The urge to silence the Bunansas is the same urge that keeps Goug under their heel. They have their Stone. They don't need bodies, too."

Beowulf shrugged. "Whatever you need to tell yourself."

Barich scowled. "I am rather tired of people questioning my motives."

"Maybe if you stopped betraying people they wouldn't?" Beowulf suggested.

Barich's eyes narrowed. "Rather hypocritical, given who your allies are."

Beowulf stiffened. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"I think you know," Barich retorted.

"But I don't," Ramza said.

Both men snapped their eyes towards him. How strange; Beowulf and Barich looked so different, moved so differently, talked so differently, but in that moment they shared the same expression of guilt, fear, and resolve.

"I've been here too long," Barich said at last.

"You have," Beowulf agreed.

Barich turned to go.

"Wait!" croaked Besrodio's stringy, cracked voice. He disentangled himself from Mustadio over his son's protests, and stood, frail but upright, on the far side of the room. Barich stood at the door, bodies of the dead to either of side of him.

"Thank you, Barich," Besrodio said. "For saving us."

"Dad..." Mustadio said, in a low voice that mixed affection and disagreement.

Barich looked back over his shoulder with a stricken look in his eyes. "You don't owe me your thanks, Master Bunansa," Barich said. "If I were stronger...if I could do more, you would never have..." His voice wavered, and he drew a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry, Master Bunansa."

Besrodio shook his head. "I have lived in Goug longer than you both," Besrodio said. "I know too well the compromises required, if you wish to live the life of a machinist in earnest. But, ah..." His voice lowered, and his eyes softened. "Be careful, Barich."

Barich nodded stiffly, and pushed his way out into the rain.

"You're too nice to him," Mustadio asked. "He's a traitor."

Besrodio nodded slowly. "But to who, I wonder?"

"This is all very interesting," Beowulf put in. "But the longer we stay here, the worse our chances are. We need to go."

"Go where?" Ramza asked. His battle calm had never left him: shocked as he might be to see Beowulf, he understood how precarious their position was. These dozen men, enforcers of a vast criminal organization that had hounded Mustadio across southern Ivalice, were nothing compared to the dangerous weight of the Church.

But even through his calm, questions intruded. How far did this conspiracy extend? Barich had cited the Templars and the Inquisition; Baerd had made it clear the Cardinal played a central role. Exactly how numerous and powerful were their enemies?

While Ramza's mind raced through these doubts, fears, and suspicions, Beowulf answered him. "Out of Lionel," he said. "Between the Cardinal, Mullonde, and Baerd it's too dangerous here."

"We can't," Ramza and Mustadio said together, and then looked at each other in surprise. But Ramza saw his own feeling echoed in Mustadio's eyes, and turned back towards Beowulf, who had sheathed his swords and now wore an exasperated look.

"You have to," Beowulf said.

"They have the Princess," Mustadio said.

"And our friends," Ramza added.

Beowulf shook his head. "Ramza, I've been fighting them for months. I know how frustrating this is-"

"Months?" Ramza asked, and ripples of curiosity and confusion threatened to disrupt his calm. "Beowulf, what-"

"We don't have _time_ , Ramza!" Beowulf exclaimed. "The longer we stay in one place, the better their chance of finding us! Whatever your intentions, we need to _move._ "

The peculiar doubling of memory over reality faded at once. The Beowulf of Ramza's youth—the young man who had deserted the Academy for the thrill of the fight—was not the same man who stood in front of Ramza now, advocating a cautious path. Ramza knew why that was—after all, there was no mistaking the cadet Ramza Beoulve with the mercenary who had just killed four men and women—but nevertheless he felt a jab of cold loss. What had happened to them? To Delita? To Beowulf? To...

"Beowulf," Ramza said softly. "Where's Reis?"

If Beowulf's face had darkened before, now it nearly blacked out. The eyes flashed with something like rage and something like grief, and the face contorted into a grimace that made his face seem almost corpse-like. Ramza took an involuntary step backwards.

"Why do you think I'm fighting them, Ramza?" Beowulf asked, in a dry, despairing voice.

"What happened?" Ramza asked. "Where is she?"

Beowulf shook his head. "It's a long story," he said. "And we don't have time to tell it. Not if we're gonna get you out."

Again, Ramza looked to Mustadio. Again, in spite of everything, he saw his feelings echoed on Mustadio's face. Mustadio nodded, and turned to face his father. "Dad..." he began, and hesitated, unsure what to say.

But Besrodio shook his head, and put his hands on Mustadio's shoulders. "After all you have sacrificed to save me, you think I begrudge you this? Do what you need to do."

Mustadio smiled weakly. Beowulf sighed. "You don't understand," Beowulf said again.

"So tell us!" Ramza shouted.

"Tell you what, Ramza?" Beowulf asked. "How far their reach extends? Where can you go where the Church does not have agents? You want to know who you can count among your enemies? The Cardinal, of course, and Knight-Captain Tengille, and Archbishop Bremondt, and do you know who they're working for, Ramza?" Beowulf glowered at him. "High Priest Funeral!"

With every name, Ramza's dim fears were crystallized into cold clarity. The Church had plotted to take the Stones; the Church had plotted to steal Ovelia from assassins and guards alike; the Church, in all its power, now counted them as enemies to be silenced.

"Delita?" Ramza asked.

Beowulf laughed grimly. "Your guess is as good as mine."

Ramza shook his head. Put like that, it did start to feel overwhelming. But whatever the odds stacked against them, he could not abandon the Princess, the Lionesses, and Radia to these unknown schemes. He had made a promise.

"We have to, Beowulf," Ramza said.

Beowulf's mouth pursed, but there was the faintest hint of a smile. "Fuck me, Ramza," he grunted. "When did I become the voice of the reason?"

"We've all picked up our bad habits," Ramza answered, startling a laugh out of Beowulf.

"Do we know what they want with the Stones?" Besrodio asked.

Beowulf hesitated, searching the air as though the answer lay concealed beyond their mortal coil. "I've heard a lot of things," he said. "I've seen first-hand the kind of power these things can command, but mainly I think the Church just wants them under their control."

"What powers?" Ramza asked.

"Too long a story, Ramza," Beowulf repeated. "I've got a friendly ship chartered to take you out of Goug. We need to get to it fast."

"And what about you?" Ramza asked.

Beowulf smiled a little. "I was happy to help you," he said. "But I didn't come to Goug just for you. There's some stuff I need to see."

"Will you be safe?" Ramza asked.

Beowulf chuckled. "No less safe than you."

Ramza laughed in turn. Nothing was very funny—their enemies were numerous, their friends in danger, their allies unknown. But still, it was a good joke. He had thought himself unsafe when he counted only the Hokuten and Nanten among his enemies. Now he felt the headman's axe dangling overhead. Not much hope of safety, if these were his enemies.

"I was actually gonna have the ship make port near Gariland," Beowulf said. "Have my father look after you. I think that's still the safest place for you, Besrodio."

Besrodio inclined his head. "Thank you for your kindness."

"Now can we go?" Beowulf demanded.

"Hold a moment," Mustadio said. "Is Barich gone?"

Beowulf frowned and looked towards the door. Ramza stepped through it, poked his head out through the pounding rain, turned his head either way and saw no sign of anyone. He ducked back inside, shivering a little as cold rain dripped down his neck. "No sign of him."

"Good," Mustadio said. He turned back to the furnace, braced himself against the side as he fumbled around. Even over the pouring rain, Ramza heard the same click of a panel giving way. A moment later, Mustadio pulled his soot-stained hand from the furnace, and the Taurus Stone glowed in his hand.

Silence in the room, save for the rain and the thunder. Everyone stared in disbelief.

"What?" Beowulf managed.

"How?" Ramza said.

"I do not..." Besrodio shook his head.

Mustadio, Stone in hand and grin upon his face, said, "Two false panels. I made a fake."

"You...when?" Besrodio asked.

"Just before they took you," Mustadio said. "Too many rumors. Even if Baerd could be trusted, it was too risky. So..." He tossed the Stone into the air and caught it deftly.

"I'll be damned," Beowulf said. "You might just pull this off."

He pulled up the hood on his cloak, and waited for the rest of them to gather their supplies—fortunately, Baerd's enforcers had been kind enough to bring their confiscated weapons and gear with them as they marched to the workshop. Then Beowulf led them out into the storm.


	51. Chapter 50: Tightrope

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 **Chapter 50: Tightrope**

In his time as a soldier, Gaffgarion had seen his share of danger. He had bargained with tyrants and stared down murderers. He had sought to claim debts from deadly men of fickle tempers, and had fought his way out of battles where every blade upon the field would gladly spill his blood. But he had never felt more keenly afraid than he did at this moment, sitting in the cozy salon of Lionel Castle.

He was not alone in the room. There were four others. Vormav Tengille (Knight-Captain of the fucking Templars, these were the enemies he had had to face in Araguay, these were the blades he had to fear), sat with his arms crossed, his flinty eyes staring vaguely into space. The red-haired man—Delita, thrice-damned Delita, alive and in their way—sat opposite him, mirroring his position. And obese Ludvich Baerd sat directly opposite Gaffgarion, his thin hair damp with sweat, looking even more nervous than Gaffgarion felt.

But Gaffgarion could well understand that, with the Cardinal pacing around them like a hungry lion looking for the weakest among the herd.

"This has been a disaster from start to finish," growled the Cardinal, after allowing the silence to stretch about them like a bowstring being pulled ready.

"A series of momentary setbacks," said Vormav. "I'm sure this incident with the Taurus will be the latest."

"It should not have happened!" roared the Cardinal, whirling around to face them.

"You set me to retrieve the Stone," quavered Ludvich. "And so I did. How was I to know it was a fake?"

"Does this look to you like an object of legend?" the Cardinal barked, snatching the fake Stone from atop his desk and holding it up into the light. Gaffgarion kept his mouth shut, but to him it did indeed; the way it gleamed in the light, and the way the Taurus insignia glittered.

Ludvich did not answer, either, and in a low voice the Cardinal said, "Or does this?" From within his robes he drew out a red Stone, and Gaffgarion felt himself recoil unconsciously against the back of the seat. The fake Stone caught the light, but the Scorpio produced its own, wine-red glow, which radiated with especial strength from the Scorpio insignia on its front.

"No need to get excited, Alphonse," said Vormav. "Put it away."

The Cardinal glared at the hard-eyed man, who lifted his flinty gaze to the Cardinal's face. After a moment, the Cardinal stuffed Scorpio back into his robes, though he kept the fake Stone in his hand.

"How was I suppose to know?" Ludvich demanded. "I'd never seen a Stone before."

The Cardinal turned his baleful gaze on Ludvich. Gaffgarion cleared his throat, and those scorching eyes whirled towards him instead. Gaffgarion shrugged nonchalantly, though his heart was beating fast. "This is all very interesting," Gaffgarion said. "But I'm not sure what it has to do with me."

The Cardinal's nostrils flared. "With the man responsible for disrupting our plans in the first place?"

"With the man responsible for chasing after those who disrupted his employer's plan?" countered Gaffgarion, though his heart lurched horribly in his chest. "If I disrupted your plans, you did not prepare well enough."

The Cardinal gave a startled bark of laughter. "You've a sharp tongue, sir?"

"When I must," Gaffgarion said.

"But that is not your only failure, is it?" the Cardinal asked. "You were supposed to subdue all the Lionesses. You only subdued two. Three, including your daughter."

Gaffgarion grimaced, trying not to remember the hurt and betrayal in Radia's eyes as he had brought her down in one quick tug on her field, sucking the strength from her limbs. "She was not where your guard captain told me she'd be," Gaffgarion grunted.

The Cardinal waved one hand dismissively, but turned those terrible eyes away from Gaffgarion's face. He breathed a sigh of relief.

"But the man makes a point!" the Cardinal exclaimed, as he turned his gaze upon Vormav Tengille. "The Princess came here without her Templar escort! Why was that, Vormav?"

"I'm not God, Alphonse," Vormav said. "I can't know everything." His eyes flickered to Delita. "But my intelligence was sorely lacking."

Delita scoffed. Both the Cardinal and the hard-eyed man pivoted to face him, violence in their eyes. "You disagree?" asked the Cardinal, in a calm voice quite at odds with his sparking eyes.

"Well, let's see," Delita said. "I was able to foil the assassins and whisk her from her own guards. The only reason we ran into any trouble was because Dycedarg had made preparations we hadn't anticipated—plans _none_ of us could have anticipated. And now, after all our problems, the Princess is in our hands. Nothing's changed."

"It took too long," grunted Vormav. "You should have killed her guards and taken the Princess then and there."

Delita rolled his eyes. "Oh, a fine plan!" he exclaimed. "Certainly no risk in trying to kill the Lionesses and his daughter!" He jerked his head towards Gaffgarion.

"You left out the Beoulve," Vormav said shortly.

Delita nodded. "That's right."

"Because he's your friend."

"He used to be," Delita said. "And given my druthers, I'd prefer to keep him alive. Just like I'd prefer to avoid unnecessary bloodshed, when other means are available. Such as letting them walk right into our arms, instead of having to fight a bloody battle that we might not have won."

"Is that all?" Vormav asked.

"No!" snapped Delita. "Because you don't know Zalbaag Beoulve. And while we may have Dycedarg's cooperation-" His eyes flickered towards Gaffgarion. "-I assure you, his brother is in the dark. He may not care for Ramza, but he _will_ investigate if we give him reason to."

The two men locked eyes. Gaffgarion distantly supposed he might have vouched for Delita—Zalbaag had already been suspicious enough when Gaffgarion had seen him, and if word had gotten out that his brother was involved it might be worse—but then, Delita had been a royal pain to him over the past few weeks, and he was not particularly inclined to help. Still, he felt as though he were wasting time.

"I hate to interrupt," Gaffgarion said. "But it seems to me my part in this is over." Vormav, Delita, and the Cardinal all swiveled their heads towards him. Gaffgarion smiled pleasantly, though his throat felt very dry, and continued, "The Princess is yours, to do with as you please. Lord Dycedarg has already agreed to move troops from Lesalia, per your request. And I believe I have made it perfectly clear the damage he could do to you, should you decide to cross him."

The Cardinal gave him a dismissive look. "I suppose you have."

"Splendid," Gaffarion said. "Then if you'll release my daughter I'll be on my way."

"And why should we do that?" Vormav asked.

A crack of cold pain across Gaffgarion's heart. His smiled faded. "That was part of the agreement."

He was sure of that. When Dycedarg had come to him with his suspicions of the Church—and the opportunity therein—Gaffgarion had helped him sort out the potential details of their agreement, and when he had taken the ship along the coast to Warjilis he had read and reread the agreement. Besides the money from Dycedarg, the Church had to agree to release his daughter, and drop all potential charges against her.

"Was it?" Vormav asked. "I don't recall. And it is so much ash, now."

Gaffgarion nodded slowly. The Cardinal was by reputation an astute general, but that did not necessarily make him adept at hand-to-hand combat. He knew Delita was a Mage Knight, and he had to assume that the head of the Templars was at least a Swordbreaker of great skill, if not more. Ludvich...heh. Ludvich wouldn't count much, either way.

It was possible he could kill them, but would it matter? It wouldn't let him save Radia.

"It was," Gaffgarion said firmly. "Dycedarg signed the agreement. To go against his terms is to render it null and void, and to leave me little recourse but violence."

Ludvich blinked his big dark eyes. The other three men were still, but something seemed wrong. Was there something a little smug in the Cardinal's eyes? A little condescending in Vormav's?

"Let us imagine that you manage to fight your way out of this room," the Cardinal said. "Do you think you could escape the Castle?"

Trapped. He felt nauseous and dizzy, a swaying vertigo sensation as though he were about to plummet from a breaking tightrope. He held himself very still, conscious of his sword on the table in front of him, and the matching swords of Vormav and Delita.

He could leave. If he did not strike first, interfering with Dycedarg's emissary would be seen as a hostile act. They would likely let him walk away, and he could make his case to Dycedarg. But in the meantime, Radia would remain imprisoned. And besides, he had the nagging sense that Dycedarg would not be willing to lose such a useful alliance for the sake of Gaffgarion or his daughter.

"What do you want?" Gaffgarion asked.

The Cardinal's eyebrows arched. "Where's that silver tongue?"

"I use it on women I'm trying to screw," Gaffgarion said shortly. "Not the men screwing me."

Delita snorted, and Ludvich managed a trembling smile across from Gaffgarion. He seemed much less sweaty and afraid than he had when he had first joined them, bearing the ill tidings of a Stone lost and Ramza and the Bunansas in the wind.

"We cannot move openly," Vormav said shortly. "Not until the girl is dealt with. There are few people I can trust. You are not one of them, but you know enough to be useful."

"And again I ask," Gaffgarion said, glaring at Vormav. "What do you want?"

"Your help in retrieving our Stone," Vormav said.

Gaffgarion considered. These Bunansas were an unknown quantity, but Ramza was not. He was well aware of the boy's abilities...and his shortcomings. Besides which, he did have the request from Gaffgarion to try and bring him back into the fold, as well as permission to do what was necessary, should he refuse.

"100,000," Gaffgarion said, almost before he knew what he saw saying.

Vormav blinked. "What?"

"100,000," Gaffgarion said. "50,000 upfront. 50,000 when I finish."

Vormav's eyes narrowed. "You are bargaining for your daughter's life."

"Yes, I'll want that as well," Gaffgarion said. "But I am mercenary. I do not work for free."

These men wanted his help. They denied him his daughter because they wanted something from him. But Gaffgarion had spent enough time at enough negotiations to know that they didn't hold all the cards, especially with Dycedarg backing him.

"100,000," agreed the Cardinal.

Everyone in the room stared at the Cardinal, who was smiling a little beneath his bushy mustache. "Are you sure, Alphonse?" Vormav asked, in a voice that seemed surprisingly indifferent.

"Why not?" asked Alphonse. "It is little enough for the prize he seeks to win. How shall you go about it?"

Gaffgarion had no idea. The boy was sure to come to Lionel, but how, and when?

"If I may?" Delita asked. Vormav and the Cardinal both turned their eyes to him. Vormav nodded curtly, and Delita continued, "The Lionesses are alive and unhurt?"

Gaffgarion nodded. "I didn't hurt them."

"They are bound," the Cardinal agreed. "But unharmed."

"That'll be bait enough for Ramza," Delita said. "Add the promise of the Princess, and you just have to pick where you set the trap."

"No one can know we hold the Princess," Vormav reminded him.

"Too true!" Delita agreed. "But if a trusted friend told him where they were?"

Vormav exhaled in a sound that might have been a laugh. "And should we trust _you_ now?"

"Have you another way to bait the trap?" asked Delita.

Again, Vormav locked eyes with Delita. After a moment, Vormav nodded. "It could work." He glanced at Gaffgarion. "Assuming you agree."

Gaffgarion hesitated. He did not trust this snide, scheming boy, who had already caused him such grief. But the fact was that he couldn't predict how Ramza might come to Lionel, or even if he would. In order to lure him out—in order to lay hands on the Stone—they had to have a trap. And for a proper trap, you needed bait, and for your prey to believe it worth the risk to try for it.

"I think it could work," Gaffgarion said. "Though I think I shall make most of the arrangements after young Delita has departed. Don't want to risk him being forgetful and letting something slip."

He had expected the barb to draw some ire from Delita. Instead, the boy merely smiled. "A respectable bit of caution," Delita said. "No honor among thieves, after all."

"You are calling us thieves?" the Cardinal asked.

"Well, Ludvich is here," Delita said. "And we do mean to steal a Stone."

"More than one," Vormav said, rising from his chair. "Are we quite finished here?"

"I think so," the Cardinal said. "When do you wish to-"

"Later," Vormav said shortly, and left the room. That was a little odd, wasn't it? Vormav might answer only to the High Priest, but surely that did not entitle him to be so dismissive of the Church's sole Cardinal. But perhaps such ranks were incidental to this plot? Idly, Gaffgarion wondered exactly how many of the past two years' events these men had had a hand in.

"May we go as well, your Excellency?" Delita asked, keeping his seat—his tone and posture were much more appropriate to his rank. "We have arrangements to make."

"Quite right," Ludvich said. "I really must be getting back to Goug."

"In a moment," the Cardinal said. He was tossing the fake Taurus stone to himself, which glittered in the runic light as it rose and fell. "There is one matter still to be discussed."

Gaffgarion, Delita, and Ludvich remained seated, watching the Cardinal and the fake Stone. The Cardinal was silent for a time, and then said, "You have each been trusted with a great deal of responsibility." The Stone rose and fell." You are men, gifted as are all men with minds and wills and talents." Rose...fell. "I will trust you to execute your responsibilities to the best of your abilities." Rose...fell. "I will reward success."

 _Crash._

Ludvich screamed as the Cardinal grabbed him by the shoulder and smashed the fake Stone into his face. Shards of orange glass protruded from his cheeks, nose, forehead, and wobbled unsteadily from one sobbing eye. Ludvich collapsed backwards, clawing at his face. He tried to rise, and the Cardinal shoved him back down.

"And I will punish failure," the Cardinal said. "You may go now."

Ludvich hunched back in his chair, weeping and screaming, and the Cardinal stood over him with his back turned towards Delita and Gaffgarion, and bile rose in Gaffgarion's throat as fear choked him. He fumbled for his sword and stumbled from the room. Beside him, Delita wasn't doing too much better: his eyes were screwed up tight, and he was muttering something to himself, over and over. Behind them, there was a grinding, crinkling noise; Ludvich's screams climbed to a fever pitch.

They trapped him in circumstances beyond his control, mocked him for seeking a reward, and threatened death and torture should he fail. He was not merely afraid; he was offended, outraged...

And grimly certain that there was no hope in opposing them.

Still Delita muttered to himself. Gaffgarion focused on the words instead of focusing on Ludvich's screams, and thought he could make out what he was saying; "No more no more no more no more no more-" on and on and on.

"No more what?" Gaffgarion asked.

Delita glanced at him. Gaffgarion missed a step. In spite of what they'd seen, Delita's eyes seemed calm and bright.

"Just something I promised," Delita said, as casually as though Gaffgarion had asked what he was having for dinner. "I like to remind myself when...well, I'm sure you understand."

Ludvich's screams had petered out, but now and then a whimpering screech rose up from behind them.

"I realize you are hesitant to discuss details with me," Delita said. "But if Ramza is to walk into your trap I will need to know where to send him."

Gaffgarion swallowed against the dryness of his throat. The way these men looked—the distant and dispassionate awareness in Delita's eyes, the dismissiveness in Vormav's, the easy brutality of the Cardinal...it was beyond him. He did not recall ever feeling so completely out of his depth.

Outrage almost choked him then. What right did these men have, to put him in this position? After all Gaffgarion had done—after the men he'd killed, bargained with, reasoned with, blackmailed, intimidated? Was he not supposed to be safe? Was he not supposed to be _free_?

Blasphemous courage mingled with his outrage. He bared his teeth in a savage grin. "The Gallows," he said.

Delita stared at him blankly, and then his eyes widened. "You don't mean...Golgolloda Gallows?"

"Why not?" asked Gaffgarion.

Delita shook his head. "Do you _want_ them to name you a heretic?"

"I _want_ to go home," Gaffgarion snapped. "But if I am being forced to work here, then I will proceed in a manner of my own choosing."

Delita's mouth twisted to one side. There was something a little surprised in his eyes...and perhaps something a little sympathetic. "Very well," he agreed. "Golgollada. What shall I tell him?"

"That the Church recognizes how dangerous the Princess is to the order of Ivalice," Gaffgarion said. "And aim to placate both lions at once by removing the threat to their supremacy."

"And her guards, as well?" Delita asked.

"Accessories to her treason."

"Including your daughter?"

A pang against Gaffgarion's ribs, but he took a breath and said, "He doesn't know I'm involved, does he?"

Delita shook his head. "I wasn't planning on telling him."

"Good."

"Do you intend to take them all to the Gallows?" Delita asked.

Gaffgarion hesitated. The Lionesses had already proven themselves dangerous, even without Captain Oaks to guide them. Gaffgarion was more than equipped to deal with the mages, but with Radia there he ran the risk of someone who could counter his power.

As Delita had said before, however, you needed bait to set a trap. And if Ramza was able to reconnoiter the Gallows and learned there were no prisoners on site, surely that would tip their hand.

"I do," Gaffgarion said.

Delita nodded. He looked casually around the hall, then said, "May I offer a word of caution?"

"Could I stop you?" Gaffgarion snorted.

A smile flitted across Delita's face. "You cannot bring too large an escort from Lionel," he said. "Ramza may want to play the hero, but we both know he can be cautious. He won't throw his life away without hope of success."

Gaffgarion had to admit, the boy had a point. Ramza might still be too idealistic for his own good, but he did have a rather quick mind. "Your point?" Gaffgarion grunted, not wanting to admit he appreciated the advice.

"You'll have to bring a relatively light escort," Delita said. "Light enough that your daughter and the Lionesses might well escape, if someone should free them. Be on the lookout. You never know who you can trust."

Gaffgarion frowned at him. Was that the boy's advice? Don't give the prisoners a chance to escape? That was fucking obvious, wasn't it?

Except...that wasn't what he'd said, was it? "If someone should free them," that's what he'd said, but who was that someone? Was it Ramza, fighting through a trap he'd never see coming? Or...or could it be Gaffgarion himself?

It wasn't impossible, was it? If he could free the prisoners and arm them...the four of them had already slaughtered the false Nanten soldiers at Orbonne. Why not kill the soldiers? Escape with his daughter? Would the Church really risk making an enemy of Dycedarg Beoulve for so small a matter?

Or could it be that this was a trap? That Delita played at some game of his own, and intended for Gaffgarion to blunder into betrayal? Revenge for the Falls?

Except Ramza had told Gaffgarion his story. The story of a man whose sister had been taken through no fault of her own, killed simply because she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. A loved one endangered by circumstance, just like Radia.

Gaffgarion stared at the boy, trying to glean something from his calm face. But the eyes, while bright, betrayed nothing.

"It's good advice," Gaffgarion said. "I'll think carefully on it."

Delita nodded, and headed down the hall. Gaffgarion stared after him long after he'd faded from sight, his jaw clenched, thinking of the impossible enemies that surrounded him, thinking of the task he'd been charged with, thinking of weapons and supplies, soldiers and positions, and thinking most of all of the possibility that Delita had dangled in front of him, trying to figure out if it was a genuine hope or the bait of an insidious trap.

And as his mind raced, he could feel the tightrope sway beneath his feet.


	52. Chapter 51: A New World

(Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, be sure to check out my books and follow my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 51: A New World**

 _...betrayed by Germonique, who was his most beloved disciple, the Saint fell into the hands of the Ydorans. And for thirty days, they forced the Saint to suffer for the crime of denouncing their evils. For thirty days they used metal and stone, torch and magic, and cruelties as clever as the weapons with which they'd conquered the world. They brought the Saint in secret to Golgollada Gallows, then cleaved the head from his body, and cast both into the sea. So mankind revealed, even with the love of the Saint, that evil cannot be extinguished from their hearts. So the wicked rejoiced, ignorant of the doom they had brought upon their empire..._

 _-Mandalia Gospel, "The Death of the Saint"_

Though Ramza was on solid ground again, the world still felt very unsteady beneath his feet. Perhaps it was the questions that still plagued him about—Beowulf, Delita, Reis, Ovelia, and the Church. Or perhaps it was the daunting scale of the task in front of him—as difficult as any ocean crossing, if not more so.

Then again, it might just be physical weariness. The flight through Goug had been tense and exhausting (clinging to the shadows of the old ruins, hearing the patter of feet in the darkness and wondering if it was others on clandestine errands or one of their many enemies closing in upon them). Nor could they move very fast—Besrodio was still too weak after his long captivity. So Ramza's skin crawled as the rain hissed down upon them and the thunder cracked and every shadow seemed to loom with a sword in hand, eager to cut into his flesh.

But eventually, damp and terrified and exhausted, the four of them made their way to the docks, and slipped aboard an agile Romandan cutter with its sails furled and its engine purring so that it stirred notable ripples even in the drizzle. Ramza lingered behind a moment, looking back to Beowulf.

"Thank you," Ramza said again.

Beowulf smiled. "It's no less than you would do for me."

Ramza hesitated then. "Do you need my help?" Ramza asked.

Beowulf hesitated in turn. "Not today," he said at length. "But if I do-"

"Find me," Ramza said at once.

Beowulf nodded, and the two men turned away from one another.

Idly, Ramza wondered where his friend had gone. The captain of the ship—a woman with Romandan olive skin and long, lustrous black hair—had no idea. Or at least, that's what she claimed. Ramza rather got the sense that both she and her eclectic crew knew far more than they let on.

Ramza turned to face the captain now, adjusting her hat and shielding her eyes from the blazing sun above. The docks of Warjilis teemed with life around them—with sailors and passengers disembarking, porters and dockworkers unloading ships, and men and women patrolling the docks with books and pens in hand, making note of the cargo as they breathed the salty air. Beyond them, warehouses of wood and stone spread as far as they eye could see, as seagulls wheeled beneath the cloudless sky.

"You're sure you'll be alright?" Ramza asked.

The captain—she refused to tell them her name—chuckled and shook her head. "Never sure," she said, her Romandan accent faint but just thick enough to give her words that curious upwards tilt. "But, ah, we know what we do, and..." She yawned, and Ramza felt a curious sense of deja vu; the way she yawned and titled her body from side to side was almost exactly the same as Baron Grimms looking to make sure he was safe to continue. "And," she continued in a lower voice. "The Church is too big not to have weaknesses."

That Ramza had gleaned. The captain and her ragtag crew were gregarious, efficient, and expertly evasive, deftly deflecting personal questions. But there were little hints—so many accents on the same crew, and little tidbits about who they'd once; here an Ordallain soldier, here an acolyte from Limberry, here a Leslian tailor. And no one used the Saint's name.

"Thank you," Ramza said. "For getting us here."

The captain grinned. "I feel it is I who should be thanking you," she said, jerking her head up the gangplank to where Mustadio and Besrodio were saying their farewells. "I have never heard my engines sing so sweet."

Ramza supposed the Bunansas had more than earned their passage. They had spent so much of their time belowdecks, playing with the Ydoran magitek engine that let the ship move so easily across the sea. Ramza knew only enough about such engines to realize how difficult the technology was to work with—they could not be rebuilt, only maintained. They were one of Goug's top exports, the pride of any navy.

He should know more by now—both men had certainly talked enough about the nature of the engines, their history, their quirks and virtues and foibles—but whenever they started talking Ramza found the sight of them at once too painful, too nostalgic, and too sweet to listen too closely. They talked almost exactly the same, losing themselves in a rapid patter of technical details. How quickly they fell into the old patterns, in spite of all they'd been through. Ramza couldn't help but wonder if he and his father would have done the same, had there ever been time.

But that was besides the point, wasn't it? The point was that Ydoran engines of the kind this ship used were much-sought-after. So who was this crew, that they had once? Who were they, that they drew their numbers from all across the world, and shared some common distrust for the Church?

Instead of asking his questions, Ramza looked back up the gangplank to Mustadio and Besrodio. He wondered what they were saving now, they hadn't said last night. He felt guilty about eavesdropping on them—he had been trying to sleep, and had almost managed it when they returned to the small cabin belowdecks the three of them shared.

"Shush," Mustadio whispered, as Ramza rolled away to face the wall. "We do not want to wake him."

"I know, I know," Besrodio said, tired yet satisfied. In spite of Mustadio's admonishment, the two were rather noisy while they made ready for bed in their separate bunks, which made it still harder for Ramza to sleep (and it was already hard enough, suspended in this swaying hammock: he could never figure out if the falling sensation was real or fake, and had flailed his way onto the hard ground on more than one occasion).

When he had finally started to drift off again, voices intruded on his consciousness—stage whispers floating ghost-like through the dark.

"Father?"

"Yes, Dio?"

"I will stay, if you ask me to."

Silence then. The words had jostled Ramza from sleep. He kept his eyes on the wall, but he pricked his ears up to listen.

"I want you to," Besrodio said softly.

Silence again. Ramza remained frozen, guilty but fascinated.

"I want you to," Besrodio said again, and there were tears in his voice and Ramza felt another stab of guilt. "What you face will be...will be far more dangerous than Baerd, and..." He drew a shuddering breath, audibly choking back a sob.

"Father," Mustadio said softly, and there were answering tears in his own voice.

"But I know!" gasped Besrodio, all in a rush. "I know you have to go, I know that you need to save her, that it's more than a debt and I am so proud of you, my Dio, I..." He trailed off again, breathing heavily. There was the rustling of a man rising, and then Mustadio and Besrodio were talking to each other once again, in hushed, teary whispers Ramza couldn't quite make out. He scrunched his eyes closed and tried his best to sleep.

"Ah," the captain said, stirring Ramza from his reverie. Ramza jerked guiltily and swiveled his gaze back to her. She pointed down the dock. "Your escort's arrived."

Ramza frowned and followed her finger with his eyes. Then his heart lurched in his chest.

The man walking down the dock wore a sailor's cap with the brim pulled low, somewhat obscuring his features. Likewise, his clothes were a little too big for his body, obscuring his frame. But Ramza recognized him almost at once.

He fought his urge to shout out in alarm, and instead stayed silent as Delita approached. He came to a stop and nodded at the captain. "Good to see you," Delita said.

"I'm sure," the captain answered, smiling.

"I hope you'll consider taking my correspondence?" Delita asked, and handed the woman a sheaf of papers. The captain took them, and her grin widened.

" _Now_ it's good to see you," she said.

Delita smiled, and his eyes flickered to Ramza. "I'll need you to follow me."

"Why should I?" Ramza asked.

"I got you out of Goug, didn't I?"

Pieces clicked together once again, in a flash of cold lightning that made Ramza's hair stand on end. He grimaced and looked back up the gangplank, where Mustadio and Bestrodio were finally saying their farewells. They separated from their embrace, and Mustadio hurried down to the dock, wiping tears from his eyes.

"Who is this?" Mustadio asked, in a cracked voice.

Ramza's mouth felt as stiff and reluctant as his heart. "An old acquaintance," he said at last.

Delita rolled his eyes. "You still don't trust me?"

"I don't see how I can," Ramza answered.

"But you can agree that it's best we don't stay in the open?" Delita asked.

Ramza wasn't sure it was any better to follow Delita, but he knew there was little choice. He gestured for Delita to lead on, and his former friend led them down the docks. He moved quickly, and Ramza and Mustadio hurried to keep up.

"Ramza, who is this?" Mustadio asked again.

"Delita," Ramza said grimly.

Mustadio jerked to a halt. "The one who works for the Church?" he squawked.

"The one who works for the Church," Delita agreed, with a withering glance over his shoulder He had not stopped walking. "And the one who saved your lives."

"Yes, I heard that before from a man I once called a friend," Mustadio snapped. "It sounded no better then."

"That's because Barich Fendsor is an opportunist and an idealist," Delita said. "I am neither."

He kept moving. Ramza and Mustaido exchanged angry, helpless glances, then followed after. Ramza felt claustrophobic with doubts, questions, and hurt. No matter what Delita might say, he had played some part in the trap that had sprung up around them—even if he had arranged for their escape from Goug.

Hurried steps and sharp turns led them through dingy alleys cluttered with refuse, until at last they came to stop next to a little wooden shack. Delita into a nearby barrel and pulled out a sword and scabbard, binding both around his waist and pulling off his oversized clothes to reveal a fine red tuni and brown trousers. He pulled the cap from his head, as well.

"Beowulf tried to tell us to go to his father's," Ramza said.

"That would have been wise," Delita replied.

"And yet you're here."

"I know better than to expect wisdom from you, Ramza."

Ramza's hand jerked down to the hilt of his sword. Delita laughed. "You expect me to believe you'd strike down a friend?"

"You wouldn't be the first," Ramza whispered, and for a moment he was standing ankle deep in snow again, with Argus gasping in pain as his blood dripped from Ramza's sword.

Delita's face whitened. "No," he said at last. "I suppose I wouldn't."

Silence then, as Ramza and Delita stared at each other. Ramza's anger was gone; now he felt tired.

"What do you want, Delita?" Ramza asked.

"To warn you away from here," Delita said.

"We need to rescue the Princess," Mustadio said.

"Any attempt at rescue will lead you right into a trap."

Ramza nodded slowly. "That's why you're here? To lead us in."

Delita nodded in turn. "They wanted me to tell you that the Princess and her retinue will be taken to Golgollada Gallows, slated for execution on the next holy day. Which you might be interested to know, is in three days."

Ramza blinked. "What? But why..."

"You tell me," Delita said.

Ramza hesitated, struggling to think clearly—to think as Delita did, snapping the pieces together to see the greater whole. "If...if she's a heretic, then...then she's no threat to the throne...whoever holds it."

Delita nodded. "And the Church is playing for the throne, as I'm sure you realized."

"You said you could keep her safe," Ramza whispered.

"And I could have," Delita said. "If we'd taken her straight to Bethla Garrison."

"How?" Ramza demanded.

"What does it matter now?" Delita asked. "Now you face the full might of the Church, on their territory. Your prize, should you succeed at defying them, is be accessories to heresy. There will be no safe place for you in all Ivalice."

"Then what would you suggest?" Mustadio said sharply. "That we simply walk away?"

"What choice do you have?" Delita asked. "They will know you're coming. They want your Stone."

"Why!" Ramza shouted. "Why do they want the Princess! Why the Stones!"

"Why does anyone want anything, Ramza!" Delita bellowed. "For power! The Church intends to make sure that whoever takes the throne they benefit from it. Goltanna and Larg would both delight to see Ovelia gone, and by reviving the legend of the Braves the Church can guarantee they play a role in picking who holds the reins of power!"

"Then we trade the Princess for the Stone," Mustadio said.

Delita's eyes widened. He looked at Mustadio in disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"Why not?" Mustadio asked. "It means little enough to us. I only aimed to keep it from Baerd's hands."

"You..." Delita shook his head, his face spread in a disbelieving smile. "Are you both fools?"

"Is it so foolish to want to do the right thing, Delita?" Ramza growled.

"It is foolish to repeat the same mistakes over and over again!" Delita snapped. "First you fail to keep her safe from kidnappers and assassins, then you walk her into the stronghold of your enemy, and then you walk straight into the gallows! How many traps do you intend to stumble into? Do you think they'd let any of you live in exchange for the Stone? You're a threat to them!"

"You mean to you," Ramza said.

Delita glared at Ramza. "How many times do I have to save you before you'll trust me?"

"Save me?" Ramza squawked in outrage. "You mock me for walking into a trap, but you did not do much to save us from Lionel! And you but sent a single man to our defense against a dozen assassins!"

Delita's eyes flashed, and his lips curled into a savage grimace. Ramza's hand rested on his sword-hilt again, so enraged that even the thought of fighting Delita did not scare him. They glared at each other, reflecting their anger back at one another. Then Delita's anger faltered, and was replaced by a quizzical amusement.

"You're quite right," he said. "Sending Beowulf alone...might as well have sent another dozen men to try and kill you."

Ramza's lips quirked in spite of himself. "It's not as funny if he's not here to hear it."

"I know." Delita sighed and shook his head. "Ramza, there's limits to what I can do. Dropping a line to a friend here and there is risky enough; I cannot warn you of their plans."

"Aren't they _your_ plans, too?" Ramza asked.

"I told you already," Delita said. "We aim to make a world where there will be no more need of Tetas or Miludas."

"And Ovelia does not count among that number?" Ramza asked.

Delita's face twisted with guilt. "She does," he whispered. "And there is little I can do to fix that."

"Come with us," Ramza said, and was surprised at what he'd said.

"What?" Mustadio and Delita said together, thought Mustadio's tone was rather more indignant than Delita's.

"If it is a trap, help us fight our way through," Ramza said.. "Help us save them."

Delita's anger was gone entirely—now there was a smile on his face. "After all these years," he said. "You haven't changed."

That startled a laugh out of Ramza. He knew how false that was. How many men and women had died by his hand these last two years? How badly had he let Radia down, to abandon her after she'd pleaded with him to stay, and in so doing leave her in the hands of their enemies? Fool, if he'd only stayed at Lionel, perhaps he could have stopped this, or saved her, or saved all of them, or...

No. No time for regrets yet. Now when they could still be saved.

"You really intend to do it?" Delita asked. "Even knowing it's a trap?"

Ramza looked back at Mustadio, who had his gun at his hip. His friend nodded, and Ramza nodded back and turned towards Delita once again. "We do."

Delita sighed and shook his head. "No arguing with fools," he said. "In that case, you'll need all the help you can get."

Delita fumbled a key from his pocket, caught it as it slipped from his fingers and slid it into the lock. He muttered curses to himself as he struggled to turn it, but at length it clicked into place, and the door squealed open.

"You took your-" started a deep woman's voice, which then rose up into a gasp. "Ramza? Mustadio?"

Ramza stared in disbelief. The interior of the shack was laden with goods—dried meats and fruits, quivers of arrows and bandoliers of bullets, a few daggers, swords, spears, axes, and maces. At the far corner of the shack was a bedroll, and rising from that bedroll, grungy and greasy with her habitual seriousness disrupted by surprise, was Agrias Oaks.

She rushed towards them, caught each of them in one arm, and pulled them close. "I'm so glad to see you," she whispered fiercely. "I did not...but I hoped...I..." She seemed to remember herself then, and took a sudden step backwards with an embarrassed look upon her face. "It is good to see you both well," she mumbled.

"Captain Oaks," Mustadio said. "I am...I am so sorry, I-"

"It is not your fault, Mr. Bunansa," she said stiffly. "I know..."

Mustadio and Agrias struggled to hold a conversation through their guilt and embarrassment. Ramza turned back around to stare at Delita, who was standing in the doorway with a smile on his face.

"You saved her?" Ramza asked.

Delita nodded. "Before they captured the others," he answered. "She was the only one I could..."

Ramza shook his head. "Why did you...I don't understand."

Delita sighed. "I know you don't," he said. "Because you're still the kind of man who thinks he can fight without killing."

Ramza shook his head again, harder. "I'm not."

"But you had to try it first, didn't you?" Delita asked. "Even though it couldn't be done, you had to try. Just like you've got to take a wanted Princess across half the country, and rescue a man wanted by a major criminal organization in spite of all the danger that entails, and walk into a trap on the off-chance you can save the bait."

None of those things were the same as that foolish pretense of righteousness. None of them were so ridiculous. He understood the long odds and the difficulties and...and...

And Delita was right. Of course he was right. Ramza had _known_ it was the same thing when he'd first saved Mustadio, and when they'd set out to save Besrodio. Wasn't that why he'd fought so fiercely with Radia? Hadn't it been the fear that his foolish dreams would meet the same brutal end?

And now they were in danger. Radia, who had saved him from the fires of Zeakden, and kept him sane through the compromises of the past two years. Alicia and Lavian, who had taught him something new, and trusted him with their charge. And Ovelia, who had been his sister's friend, and who was Ramza's now.

After the silence had stretched, Delita went on, "I can't do that, Ramza. I don't know if I ever could. Maybe it's our births-"

"Delita-" Ramza started at once.

"No, listen," Delita said. "Maybe...maybe being born as you were meant you could... _afford_ to dream, and think...and you pulled me along, back then!" He smiled, and the smile made him look terribly young. Then the smile faded, and he continued, "But I...I never really could. I have to count the cost. I have to be...careful."

"So you save one," Ramza said. "And hope she gets the chance to save the rest."

Delita gestured around them. "Will this be enough?"

Ramza shook his head. "What happens if they find out you did this?"

"They sent me here," Delita said. "They want you to walk into the trap. They hope I can lead the way."

"But you're betting on me breaking the trap, aren't you?" Ramza asked.

Delita's eyebrows arched. "Wouldn't that be your plan whether I was helping you or not?"

"It would," Ramza agreed. "But that doesn't mean you have to help me."

"I'm afraid we must agree to disagree," Delita said.

"Why?"

"Because I aim to make a world where there will never be another Teta or Miluda," Delita said. "And I don't believe such a world can exist if there are no Ramzas in it."

Delita smiled. Ramza stared, confused. He had been so angry when Delita had strolled down the docks to meet them. There was a part of him that was still angry now. But that part was only one small piece of the complex mosaic—the nostalgia, the aching grief, the warm love, the doubts and fears and questions that still plagued him. He missed Delita. He did not want to see him go.

"What do you want, Delita?" Ramza asked.

Delita shook his head. "I already told you-"

"I know," Ramza said. "No more Tetas. No more Miludas. But what does that mean?"

Delita was quiet for a moment. He looked up into the blue sky, with his lips pursed thoughtfully.

"Did you ever realize how pointless it all was?" he asked.

Ramza did not answer. He studied Delita, who was still staring thoughtfully at the sky.

"None of us should have been there," Delita said. "Only reason there was a war is because of the squabbling of kings. And without the war, there's no plague—our parents both live, and I never live beneath your roof. And if I don't live beneath your roof, Teta never..."

Delita trailed off. Ramza felt his eyes burning, but still could not tear his gaze from Delita.

"Without a war, there's no Coprse Brigade to form the Corps. And without a prince desperate to keep his army intact, the Corps keeps their pay, and never rebels. Even...even Argus." He lowered his gaze to Ramza's face. "If we don't punish men for the sins of their father, Argus never needs to prove himself. He never..."

Silence then. Ramza thought again of Argus—Argus with tears in his voice, Argus pleading with Ramza to understand, Argus dying with Ramza's sword in his back.

"Everyone just keeps falling the same current. The one that leads to world where people are punished for the ambitions of the powerful and by accidents of birth," Delita said. "Such a world can only give us more Tetas and Miludas."

"And you aim to make a different world?" Ramza asked.

Delita shrugged. Ramza chuckled weakly. "And you say _I'm_ the idealist."

Delita laughed. "Well," he said. "Perhaps you rubbed off on me." He jerked his head out towards the city. "I have to..."

"I know," Ramza said.

"You're leaving against, Ser Heiral?" Agrias called. She and Mustadio had stopped talking at some point, and had taken to sheepishly investigating the various weapons and goods stored in the shack. Ramza suspected they'd been eavesdropping, too polite to interrupt.

"You don't have to call me that, Captain Oaks," Delita sighed.

Agrias nodded, with a slightly baffled expression on her face. "I...I do not know if I should thank you."

"Then don't," Delita said, and headed down the alley. Ramza stepped out of the shack and watched him until he was out of sight. As he had last time, Ramza wished Delita had opted to join them. As he had last time, he was glad to see him, no matter what questions he still had.

He turned back to Mustadio and Agrias. "That's your old friend?" Mustadio asked. Ramza nodded, and Mus added, "He seems like kind of an asshole."

Ramza smiled. "You're not wrong." He looked to Agrias. "You're alright?"

"I will be," she growled. "Once we've saved the Princess."

"I've never been to Golgollada Gallows," Ramza said. "You know it?"

Agrias shook her head. "Only that it is reserved for those who commit the highest crimes against the Church." Her face looked gaunt and haunted. "That they should accuse her Highness for ambition alone-!"

"We'll stop them," Ramza said, and was surprised at the confidence in his own voice.

"Damn right we will," Mustadio agreed.


	53. Chapter 52: A Happy Man

(Thanks for reading! If you like what you read, be sure to check out my books and follow my website, quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 52: A Happy Man**

In all things, the Ydorans had built well. From their fortresses, to their libraries, to their monasteries, to their execution grounds.

Gaffgarion might not believe that Ajora had returned from death as an angel of judgment, burning the sinners of Ivalice in a righteous fire, but _something_ had happened to reduce the empire to such a ruin. Yet in spite of that mysterious cataclysm, and the grinding centuries that had passed since then, Golgollada Gallows still stood.

Gaffgarion had toured the grounds many times already—not that there was much to see. The Gallows conisted of a subterranean gaol whose stairs ascended straight up to the wood gallows (which also held a chopping block, so they were prepared for all manner of executions). This gaol was a wide circle of dirt protected a high stone wall with only a single wrought-iron dropgate by way of entry. The whole thing was built upon a cliff's edge, overlooking the sea. There was a small custodial staff that was supposed to care for this holy site, but they had been dismissed—the Church did not intend to spread news of its captives too far.

Gaffgarion stood at the very precipice of the cliff, staring down at the crashing surf that had shaped the jagged rocks below. In spite of the summer warmth, a clammy wind billowed off the sea and made Gaffgarion shiver. Perhaps if he was totally honest with himself it was not just the wind—it was from this place that the Saint's broken body had been hurled, to smash into oblivion down below.

And wasn't that the Church in a nutshell? The Ydorans had used these Gallows as a place to break and execute the criminals they did not want to martyr. They had cast the Saint into this sea, hoping the waves would wash away his name. And instead, the Saint had risen in Judgment, and obliterated the heartland of the Ydoran Empire.

So the Church made sacred the Gallows, and named Ajora as the object of their worship. A man whose last act was the annihilation of an entire nation for the sins of its government. Who had made no distinction between his killers and the other innocents who suffered just as he did, and instead smote all alike.

Grim thoughts to keep Gaffgarion company, but still less grim than the other wheels turning in his head—the ones studying the patrols he'd established, the lookouts he'd left here and there. Trying to decide if he would follow Delita's advice, and disappear into the night with his sword slick with the blood of the men he led.

No outside observer could know this occupied him—Gaffgarion had reassured himself of this many times now. He'd brought some twenty soldiers with him (he'd picked the number; the Cardinal had picked the men and women), and arranged them throughout the Gallows. Four to serve as lookouts, with staggered schedules that he would change daily and orders to report to him directly at shift's end, , so that he would be aware of even the smallest changes immediately. These were some of the better soldiers, from what Gaffgarion had gleaned. These were the ones he intended for Ramza and Mustadio to kill, as they drew close.

And when they came—and they _would_ come, Gaffgarion was sure of that, sure that Ramza's fool idealism would lead him here—would they find the gate open, or closed? Would they come to face Gaffgarion, or would they come to find the battle already begun?

Gaffgarion had given the orders carefully. One of the two mages in his little party guarded the gaol down below (with Alicia's scepter in hand), in case all the magic users they had locked away should find a way to free themselves. This mage, in turn, was guarded by one of the burlier soldiers. Several other soldiers manned the walls, while two patrolled the grounds. At any moment, fifteen troops would be in different positions across the Gallows, with the other five at rest.

But two soldiers were no match for Gaffgarion. He could drain the mage, cut down the soldier, and restore the scepter to Alicia. From there he could steal across the grounds, fighting until his treason was discovered, and then lead the Gryphons into a trap of magic down below. By the time he was done, it would be an even fight.

And then?

The part of his brain that had spent 30 years soldiering—the part of his brain that had fought and clawed its way up from a trusted scout in the frontlines of the 50 Years' War to an apprenticeship with one of the few kingdom's Vampire Knights, the part that had leveraged his talents into contracts and bargains and brutal missions, keeping the secrets of the powerful—could not stop figuring out how it might be done. How he might kill twenty men and women who looked to him to set a trap.

But killer instinct alone had not guided him through the thick of the 50 Years' War and countless battlefields. There was that other part—the one that had studied his commanders' habits and vices, learned when to ask, plead, flatter, intimidate. The part that was always aware of his surroundings, and the larger context of his battlefield. If he betrayed the Church, there would be no safety. There would be no clifftop cottage, no easy solace as the waves sighed beyond the hills, no safety. There would just be desperate flight, and the nagging fear of the blade that would find him one day.

Gaffgarion turned his back on the ocean, strode across the bare dirt grounds of the Gallows and then down the worn stone steps into the gaol. The mage—a sheepish looking man with big spectacles—was sketching patterns of light with Alicia's scepter. The soldier—a brawny woman with an Ydoran spear—glared at him from her place against the far wall.

"How are our prisoners?" Gaffgarion asked, in a casual voice that betrayed none of his anxiety.

"Quiet," grunted the woman—was Nesta her name? He couldn't remember.

"Hmph. We'll see." He strolled past them, and saw them exchange glances from the corner of his gaze. That was one hitch in the plan—the Gryphons did not like being commanded by a foreign mercenary. He had earned their grudging respect along the way here, with his steady rotation of guard shifts and his instant ease with the defensive situation of the Gallows, but there was little trust and still less love. If he decided to fight...

The soldiers did not care for him. The prisoners did not care for him. Gaffgarion was alone.

He moved silently through the dark, with the rolling step that took such a toll on his ankles but made so little noise. He had kept the cells dark and his men at the door, so that there would be no chance for the captives to hatch plans beetween them. But as he stole into the room, he heard whispers.

"-sorry, Alicia, I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault Lav, I was supposed to keep you safe, I was-"

"I can't do anything I'm so weak you're always having to look after me-"

"How many times have you saved me? How many times-"

"You could have gotten away. You didn't."

Silence then. Gaffgarion had frozen in spite of himself, listening to the mages whisper, tears of anguish in their voices.

"There were too many of them," Alicia said.

"Don't lie to me, Al."

"They have mages too, they knew where we were, and that bastard-"

"Hit me first, Al, you had time-"

"I couldn't."

Silence again.

"Al..."

"I couldn't, Lav. Leave you? Not on your fucking life. I don't care what they do to me, I couldn't, and I'm not sorry and I'll never be sorry, you hear me!" Her voice had risen into a frenzy.

"KEEP IT DOWN IN THERE!" bellowed the guard with the spear (he couldn't remember her name for the life of him). "Boss don't want us to take your hands, but we can take your tongues."

Silence followed. Gaffgarion remained where he was, his heart aching. He heard the women, and he remembered Radia's mother.

"Never, Lav," Alicia said. "You're the best thing that ever...at the Academy, and...and you think I could ever...you think..." Her voice was choked by muffled sobs.

"Al..." Lavian wheezed. "Al, I love you."

"I love you so fucking much, Lav, I don't regret a thing, you hear me-"

Gaffgarion could not bear to linger here. He hurried on, careless if his steps should be heard, almost hoping they would be, that the women would have their private moment, their anguished confession. A confession they only had to make because he had taken them prisoner.

And for what, Geoffrey? For money? Was that worth all this? Worth your daughter in chains, along with her friends? Worth the attentions of the powerful, and the vulnerability that came with it?

He'd had this fight before—with Radia's mother, years ago. Gaffgarion had been overseeing garrisons in Limberry when he had taken up with Ava Ladislas, a tavernkeeper's daughter in the small town where the Haruten recruits had been quartered. Her hair had been the same lovely red as Radia's, and she had been wide of hip and breast, besides. Gaffgarion nursed many fond memories of the way the silken hair had felt knotted between his fingers, how that warm body had felt heaving up against him in the dark.

But there was little glory in seducing tavernmaids and training recruits. Gaffgarion wanted to be on the frontlines, where a man could prove himself and rise through the ranks. Where a man could show his skill, and earn his place in the world.

"So you're just leaving?" Ava had demanded, in that haughty, imperious voice. Her arms were folded across her bare breasts, her blue eyes glaring.

"There's nothing for me here," Gaffgarion had answered, shrugging on his shirt.

She scowled at him. "You're cruel."

"Nothing cruel about it," he replied. "Not gonna rise through the ranks out here."

"Ain't gonna do much rising if you die, neither," she grunted.

Gaffgarion sat back on the bed, pulling up his pants. "Everyone dies eventually," he said. "Might as well make it worth your while."

"And what's worth it?" she asked. "Money? Fame?" She laughed. "You'll never be happy, Geoff. You'll just keep running and running until you die."

That had stung more than Gaffgarion cared to admit. He had left in a huff, ignorant of the child growing in her belly, and on the frontlines of the battlefield ignorant of the plague that had taken her until the elder Ladislas sent word asking him to come and care for the daughter he hadn't known he had.

The daughter in the cell in front of him, with chains tethering her arms to either wall. Just like the mages—all too adroit with dangerous magic to be trusted with free hands. There was little enough light—just what leaked in from the moon and the torches outside—but he could still see her eyes fixed upon him, blazing with indignation.

Those green eyes...he hadn't been able to deny he was her daughter. Disgraced, but with his pockets lined with gil, he had returned to Limberry, and taken her under his wing.

"So you're here," she grunted, loud enough so that silence fell over the whispers of Alicia and Lavian towards the front of the gaol.

"I am," Gaffgarion said.

"Leave."

Gaffgarion snorted. "Or what, dear daughter mine?"

"Don't you fucking _dare_ ," she snarled.

He stood outside her cell, hands on his hips, watching his daughter. She glared up at him, her chains rattling in her rage. And Gaffgarion felt an answering rage ignited somewhere in his chest. After all his work, all his effort, all his careful lessons, it had come to this.

"You kill royal soldiers and follow a renegade princess," Gaffgarion said. "And you wonder how you ended up here."

Radia laughed, though the sound was brittle and bitter. "I followed my conscience," she said. "If there were more like me-"

"But there aren't, and thank God for that!" he snapped. "Can you imagine a kingdom filled with fools like you?"

"That's not true," she whispered, though he could hear the desperation in her voice.

"No?" Gaffgarion asked. "And who do you offer as retort? Your beloved Corps were thieves, murders, and kidnappers;

"We weren't-" she started, but Gaffgarion's fury would brook no interruption..

"And your Princess and her company of fools walked headlong into a trap!" he growled, raising his voice. "And look what happens when your beloved Braves walk upon the earth. Men kill and die to take that power for themselves."

"That's not...that doesn't..." There were tears in Radia's voice, a stutter that would soon be a sob, and Gaffgarion wanted to hear her cry. He wanted to break her, for what she had done to him, for what she had done to herself.

"Everywhere we went," Gaffgarion pressed. "Every batch of bandits, every rebellion or mercenary band or pirate scum...did you learn nothing?" He shook his head. "I tell you the tale of the Braves, and you forget how it began. That it was a man who unleashed the Lucavi, and set them rampaging across Ivalice. A and his ambition." He stretched his arms wide to encompass the building that surrounded them and the surrounding grounds. "You stand in the place where the only Saint mankind has ever known was killed because he threatened the powerful. Why do you insist-!"

But now it was his voice that was desperate, and he was not alone in this place—there were the Lionesses down the way, and the foreign knights standing guard outside the door. He swallowed down his words, felt something hot and fierce and shameful in his chest, making his eyes water.

They were silent for awhile, not quite looking at one another. After a time, Radia said, "What becomes of Ovelia?"

Gaffgarion shook his head despondently. He could not give Radia any information before he'd decided on his own course. "What becomes of those who disrupt the plans of the powerful?"

"And Ramza?" Radia asked.

Gaffgarion sighed, and thought of the boy who'd been his charge for the past two years. A boy who was quick of mind, learning whatever art he needed, who had taken to killing with surprising brutality given his one-time resolve to stay his hand. He represented many things to Gaffgarion—an investment in the future, a useful protege both on and off the battlefield, and a student who had to be made to understand his errors, just like Radia. A boy with an irritating habit of choosing non-lethal paths when they were available, and who even now troubled the powerful he should be courting.

And should Gaffgarion follow his example? Should he abandon all the rules and principles that had kept him alive and led him this far? Should he abandon safety and security, stir up the hornet's nest of the Church, for a chance to pry daughter and apprentice from their grasp? Put to ruin all the safety and security he'd spent decades laboring to build?

"What does it matter?" Gaffgarion asked.

"Is he alive?" Radia asked, and Gaffgarion feared what he heard in her voice. He feared that pain, and that aching want. He feared what it implied.

And part of him wondered if he had ever felt that way about anyone.

Ava? No, sweet as his hours had been with her, they had both known it was nothing real—a man trapped in a garrison he wanted no part of, and a woman aching for some taste beyond the town she'd known. But there had been others, in his youth—lovers, yes, and friends besides, the lesser sons of noble houses and their sisters, the captains and commanders, and how easily, how dispassionately they spilled the blood of the men and women under their command. They didn't see it—they had been born to it—but Geoffrey Gaffgarion, the bastard of a bastard whose mother had won him a place as a Haurten squire, knew it too will.

How carelessly, how casually they spent their gil, or gave their orders, or reclined at ease among the most precarious battlefields! They knew their positions gave them power, and they took to that power with unashamed ease. They ordered the executions of deserters who had faced such horrors, they sent squads of soldiers to their deaths just to test their enemy's defenses, they dropped gil enough to feed a family to combat a few hours' idleness. And Gaffgarion stood, and watched, and learned his best how to navigate these strange waters.

And Ramza Beoulve, born to power and privilege, cast both away. For ideals he would never realize. That could never be realized.

"If he is wise," Gaffgarion said at last. "He will abandon this quest, and take advantage of his name to make a difference."

"You mean hide behind his fucking brother," Radia spat.

"Yes," Gaffgarion agreed. "His fucking brother." Dycedarg Beoulve, a man who schemed and played with lives and armies and nations, played at a scale that Geoffrey Gaffgarion knew he'd never reach. The scale of men like Vormav and the Cardinal. Look at Queen Louveria—her most foolish whims brought men of means to their knees. What hope was there of victory against such forces?

"And you?" Radia asked.

"I'll walk away," Gaffgarion said. "Richer for it."

"You won't walk," Radia said. "You'll run."

The skin on Gaffgarion's neck crawled. He saw Ava's shadow in Radia's face—the same high cheeks, the pointed chin. As though her ghost was in the room with them. "What?" he said softly.

"You'll never have enough money," Radia said. "It'll never be enough. All you do is run. You'll keep running until you're dead. You'll never be happy."

There it was again—the same bitter accusation Ava had hurled against him. That all his ambitions and all his desires would amount to nothing. That he would die, alone and unfulfilled.

And Gaffgarion was surprised to find he didn't disagree.

Back then—as a man ignorant of the safety and security his position afforded him, a man who did not yet know that he would one day long for the boredom of his garrison days when he faced the full fire and fury of the 50 Years' War—he had hoped to rise in the world. To make a name for himself, to gain the power and prestige he thought his due. He had not known how jealously they powerful guarded their power, how they begrudged sharing even the barest ounce of their prestige. A man who, like Radia (and like Ramza, though he suspected the boy would deny it), believed that honor, valor, and talent were enough to prove your worth and win your place.

War taught you better. When your friends died around you, sacrificed to hold the line so your commander could "deliver valuable intelligence" (what a fancy term for "retreat and leave his men to die"). When you found your commanders deep in their cups while a third of their men fought and died in the field. When they ruled from on high, and cared nothing for your death.

And Gaffgarion had learned better. He had become as efficient, effective, and indispensable as possible. He had learned when to speak, and when to hold his tongue. He had learned how to hint at secrets he only suspected, how to wield mind and tongue like scalpel or hammer as the circumstances warranted. When the Haruten had been made to bear the brunt of the war crimes reparations on the Eastern Front, Gaffgarion had helped arrange to see a few men killed, a few men censured, a few men disgraced. And in exchange, he would be given the path he'd concocted for himself—a path that might lead him away from the toil and danger that was his lowborn lot.

Happy. They both accused him that way—trying to tell him he would never be happy. When Ava had said it, it had stung, because he had been young enough to nurse the hope of happiness. He was older now. Happiness was for children's tales—the kind Radia loved. It was fleeting where you found it. It did not buy food, or build a roof above your head. How many fools chased happiness, and found themselves empty-handed?

Gaffgarion did not give a damn if he was happy. He wanted only to put an end to his running. He wanted to leverage the secrets he knew and the wealth he'd accumulated to build a safe space, where he and his daughter would be free from the depredations of the powerful, free from the clawing hands of Larg, Goltanna, the Church, or any other powers.

And there was his answer. To turn upon the Gryphon knights here—to free Radia and the Lionesses, and to side with the fool Ramza—would be to set a torch to all his hard-won gains, and spend the rest of his life in flight. How many more battlefields would Gaffgarion have to stalk? How long before his luck ran out? How long before his daughter's?

"Are you happy, dear daughter mine?" Gaffgarion asked.

Radia glared at him, though there were tears glistening in her eyes. Gaffgarion turned away from her, and strode down the hall. He did not like the way his daughter looked at him. He did not like the idea of having to put Ramza to the sword. He did not like the strings of the powerful pulled tight around his limbs, and he did not like what was required of him to keep all he had worked for. But it was a child who refused to dirty their hands. It was a child who refused to act when necessity demanded compromise from them.

Gaffgarion did not like the work he had to do, but he would do it all the same. He had spent his lifetime running. He could run on a little farther, when the end was so close.


	54. Chapter 53: Bloodstained

(Thanks for reading, all! Due to the holidays and family emergencies, I'm afraid I need to take a short hiatus. I should be able to start getting content up again by 1/17. I apologize for the delay, and appreciate your patience. Remember, if you're hungry for content in the meantime, there's plenty more at . Here's hoping you all had good holidays and that you have a happy New Year)

 **Chapter 53: Bloodstained**

 _...every civilization across our world has always had magic of one form or another, though the precise form that magic has taken has always varied widely from continent to continent, culture to culture, or even town to town. Individuals who can consistently draw spectacular results from their field alone are rare, and their power usually earns them a place in the history books (one has only to look at Elidibus to see this is true even in Ivalician history). The prosperity and power of a nation has almost always been at least in part decided by its aptitude for magic and magitek. The Ydorans were adroit at enhancing runic invocations with materials—specific gems, minerals, alloys, and woods—which have informed Ivalician practice, while Zelmonia practiced a rich variety of traditions, including the bloodline talents of the village of Galthena. The earliest nations found that blood magic—the enhancing of magic by the ritual of spilling of blood—made for a potent enhancement. You can trace these traditions and practices throughout human history, and in so doing can usually understand something of the history of the time, as well..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Guest Lecture to the Department of Magical Theory at the University of Gariland"_

They were running out of time.

All three of them knew it. How long could the Church be expected to wait to bring the sword down upon Ovelia's head, with the holy day fast approaching? Would she be executed first, or last? So far as Ramza could tell, no one had been killed, and if they were using the Gallows to execute her for heresy there would surely be some degree of ceremony. But Delita had warned them about how little time they had, and it had taken long enough to get here.

Ramza crawled and slithered among the outlying hills, daubed with mud and grass so he would better blend in with his surroundings. They had been camped in the lea of a hill for a little more than a day, trying to get a sense of their enemies' patrols and their strength. But Mustadio, for all his skills, was not a soldier, and Agrias, for all her strength, was a guard-captain and had no experience in scouting, so it fell to Ramza to use the knowledge and techniques he'd acquired across the battlefields of the past two years to stalk the Gallows from afar.

"What news?" Agrias asked, as Ramza joined them in their lea towards noon. Mustadio stirred fitfully beneath his bedroll, but did not wake.

"Four patrolmen beyond the outer wall," he answered. "With a staggered shift change."

"Doesn't give us much time," murmured Agrias. "And within the Gallows proper?"

"Hard to say. I'd say at least another dozen men, but we might want to plan for twice that."

Agrias cursed under her breath. "They're not sloppy."

"No."

They were silent for a time. Agrias pursed her lips, and lifted her eyes to Razma. "What do you think?"

"I think the longer we wait, the more we risk."

Her eyebrows arched. "We are but three, and may face as many as thirty."

"We may," Ramza agreed. "You're welcome to leave, if you're afraid."

Agrias' eyes flashed. "You dare-!" but then she broke off when saw Ramza's smile. "This is no time for jokes."

"Tim enough," Ramza said. "We cannot take the Gallows until nightfall."

Agrias pursed her lips again. "What do you suggest?"

"We wait for dawn," Ramza answered. "There's always a shift change at dawn. They'll be at their least alert."

"And then?"

"Just as we discussed."

Agrias nodded. She drew her sword, and set to work cleaning and sharpening the blade. Ramza followed her example, studying the bundled arrows he'd packed away, packing a quiver and removing the felted tips from one bundle, so he could snap it into the quiver once he emptied it. Likewise he packed his belt and sheathes, so he would always have a weapon near at hand.

So many weapons, and so many memories with each. Most of death and pain—of Argus' arrows sinking into Corps' throats, of the bastard sword and daggers he'd claimed by killing Baerd's enforcers on the outskirts of Zaland. He took care arranging his gear—bow, arrows, and sword would both be placed across his back, to make the night's work as easy as possible.

And what a pretty euphemism that was! "Night's work." You'd find such tactful phrases all across the kingdoms of Ivalice—and Ramza suspected you'd find them in Ordallia and the Empire, as well as any other place you might find human beings of ambition. The little lies that sketched around the murderous deeds required of merchants and farmers, soldiers and mercenaries, nobles and scholars and all manner of men. Curtains carefully arranged to hide the grim reality.

How many nights had Ramza done such work? Too many now—working as guards for merchants, or as hired blades for noblemen. Putting down rebellions here, and bandits there. And few between were the men who did not use politeness to mask their violence. Few indeed were the men who spoke not of casualties but deaths, and not of victories but murders. Few indeed were the men who could own up to their sins.

Ramza had sins—too many to count. How many men had died, by his action or inaction? Surely there had been another way to spare those rebels, save those captives, let those men and women go, to drive back Argus without driving a blade through him, to save Teta before the arrow flew, to spare the Valkyries and Gustav and even the man who had tried to kill him upon the Mandalia Plains.

Ramza joked to Agrias because he feared what was to come. He feared the night's work ahead of him—the arrows he would loose, and the swords he would swing, and the blood that would drip and the pleas and sobs he would hear. He was afraid because, win or lose, he would kill men and women with dreams just like him, with hopes just as cherished, with friends and family and lovers who would grieve.

"Ramza."

Ramza looked up. Agrias had ceased cleaning her blade. She was looking up into the blue sky, with the breeze toying with her hair.

"Do you know my family?" she asked. Ramza shook his head. Agrias nodded. "The Oaks are as lowborn as you can be, and still be called nobles. Soldiers one and all."

"Ah, wait," Ramza said. "Your...grandfather, was it? Promoted to noble for..." He trailed off, embarrassed that he was unable to remember.

She nodded. "For saving Denamda's life at Zelmonia. But..." She sighed. "We're soldiers. That's all. No one wants us anywhere else. I've risen the highest, and I've..."

She looked down from the sky, and stared at her sword. "They wanted more for me. That's why they had me taught the Bursting Blade, and why they bought me this sword, and my armor, and..." She lifted her eyes to Ramza, and Ramza nearly fell backwards before the rage blazing therein. "And I was made to guard the Princess, Ramza. I was given a charge to prove myself, and now...!"

She closed her eyes. Ramza remained where he was, watching her. In some ways, he still didn't quite know what to make of Agrias Oaks. She was prickly, awkward, steadfast, loyal, and gracious. It was a confusing combination that had made for tension during the whole time he'd known her—as she distrusted him, threatened him with death, thanked him for his help, and helped him rescue Mustadio even as she forswore responsibility for him.

Ramza was surprised to find he understood her perfectly. He well-remembered the discomfort that had pervaded his life, from the Beoulve Manor to the Gariland Military Academy, as he had tried to live up to a name he had never felt worthy of. And Ramza, too, had failed when he had finally felt a charge that seemed to validate him. When he had decided not to kill, and tragedy had followed.

How hard it was, to stick to a worthy charge. How fragile your honor felt, in a world that besieged you from all sides. How you longed for the simple and straightforward, and feared the muddy waters of compromise.

Ramza had spent the past two years swimming in those waters. Killing men and women, and trying to salve his conscience in one way or another. He no longer dreamed of a battle where he might keep his hands clean. But he still hoped for righteousness. And he could think of a few better causes than saving Ovelia, her Lionesses, and Radia.

"We'll save them," Ramza said softly.

Agrias nodded, though she did not speak.

The sun sank away, and night cast a shadow over the hills around them. In the thickest dark of that night, Ramza crawled across the hillside. The moon was a thin wedge, barely casting any light. The stars glittered, and the cool night air hung still and serene.

Ramza's eyes flickered between the horizon and the hills, watching for any signs of patrolmen. Agrias and Mustadio were somewhere behind, concealed in shadows, waiting for his word. He had nocked an arrow to his bow, and held himself very still. He wanted to reveal no sign of himself, before the moment came.

And there; the horizon brightened, casting one soldier in silhouette, rounding the base of a nearby hill. Ramza trained, drew, and loosed: the arrow flew, swift and true, and sank into the soldier's neck. The figure tumbled away, head over heels.

No time now: they had to move for the Gallows, before the execution was carried out. Ramza bent low and kept moving, navigating the outlying hills, a fresh arrow already set to his bow. He kept searching for any sign of-

There, movement around a nearby hill, and Ramza ducked low and readied his arrow, waiting for a clear shot, and...

Wait! Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement, turned his head and found a man with his own bow and arrow cresting the hill, much closer to him. The old razor calm filled him, whetted his thoughts so they seemed sharp as swords and clear as crystal, and he pivoted, loosing his arrow at the closing man. The arrow's tip bounced harmlessly off the man's chestplate.

Ramza dropped his bow and charged up the hill towards the staggering soldier, drawing the bastard sword from his back. The man tried to raise his bow: Ramza's sword cleaved through it, and took most of the soldier's fingers along the way. Before the man could scream, Ramza dropped the sword, drew a dagger from his waist, and buried it in the man's neck. Blood squirted across his face.

He heard the crossbow bolt before he realized what it was, threw himself low as it whistled overhead. He glanced back towards the figure he'd first aimed at, a woman with a crossbow in hand, a fresh bolt already loaded, trained on him-

There was that _crack_ like thunder and she collapsed with a cry.

Ramza glanced in alarm over his shoulder, where Mustadio stood with gun in hand, already loading a fresh bullet into his pistol. Beyond the hill, someone shouted, "Enemy attack!"

"CHARGE!" Agrias bellowed, rising from cover with her sword drawn, and just like that they were off and running, Ramza pausing only to scoop up sword and bow and wrench his dagger from the throat of the man he'd killed.

Another _crack_ as Ramza vaulted over the crumbling stone wall that encircled the Gallows: the same voice that had shouted an alarm gave a scream of pain. Ramza found the screamer clutching at his stomach, and hurried on. Beyond was the Gallows proper, its aged walls still strong, its single wrought-iron gate impassive. Two soldiers stood above the gate, one with a bow and one with a crossbow. Through the holes in the gate, Ramza could glimpse a swarm of activity—soldiers swarming with weaopns in hand. And beyond them...

Beyond them, Alicia's thin head was bent low, her hands bound behind her. The cowled figure above her hefted his axe.

"AGRIAS!" Ramza shouted.

"I see!" she roared, and put on an extra burst of speed. She seemed impossibly fast, tearing ahead of them towards the gate. A crossbow bolt hurtled through one of the gaps, passed by her head close enough to stir her hair. A _crack,_ and the man who'd loosed the bolt crumpled where he stood, as his comrade with the bow ducked back for cover.

Then Agrias was at the gate, and her sword was cutting through the air, and Ramza well knew what would follow the slashing of her shimmering blade. He closed his eyes and braced himself for the blast.

The explosion was even bigger than the one with which Wiegraf had devastated a hilltop on the southern fringe of Fovoham. Even through the thunder, Ramza could hear the squealing of the metal torn loose, and as he blinked his eyes clear he took in the smoke and the chaos, the shattered gate and the broken bodies of the soldiers that had not understood the danger of the woman who had charged them.

Already Agrias was fighting again—some brave soldier had charged through the gap, sword in hand, and now they ringing of their steel filled the air. Alicia was huddled upon the gallows, with the headman nowhere in sight: Ramza raced past Agrias, trying to reach her.

A figure materialized from behind the gallows, sword in hand—the executioner, his axe replaced with a sword. He darted for Ramza, sure and certain, agile and familiar, and Ramza had time to register a moment's surprise, to lift his sword to parry-

And when blade met blade, the strength was drained from Ramza's limbs, as the air shimmered around the executioner. Ramza staggered, tried to swing his sword, and found it knocked from his hand. A line of fire was carved across his palm, and he fell to his knees, clasping at his injured hand.

"Enough!" shouted Geoffrey Gaffgarion, pulling the black hood from his head to reveal his ivory hair and matching mustache. His sword was at Ramza's throat.

Silence then. Where he'd fallen, Ramza could just make out the gate. Agrias stood over the slain body of the man who'd moved to stop her—perhaps a half-dozen others lay strewn around her, dead or wounded from the metal shrapnel of the shattered gate. Mustadio was just behind her, his gun trained on Gaffgarion. But around them, other soldiers were emerging—soldiers with spears, swords, maces, axes, one man with wire-rim glasses holding Alicia's scepter.

But while some dim, distant part of Ramza perceived the changing circumstances around the Gallows, most of his attention was focused on Gaffgarion. His sense of calm had been obliterated.

"What are you doing here?" Ramza whispered, hating the weakness in his voice, because even he was uncertain whether it was what Gaffgarion had done to him or the sight of this man who had been his mentor and employer and foe these past two years.

"I was hired to do a job," Gaffgarion said.

Ramza almost laughed. "First fight against them, then for them?"

Gaffgarion shrugged. "You fought for the Hokuten, before you fought against them."

Maddening. How normal this moment was—how they'd repeated it over and over again, on so many battlefields over the last two years. Arguments about captives and pay, about who to fight and when and how, and Gaffgarion always _won_. He was so quick of mind and tongue, and whatever brief victories Ramza had nursed would fall apart if Gaffgarion did not concur. The mercenary would see to that, one way or another.

And now here he stood, sword in hand. Had he orchestrated all of this?

"What do you want?" Ramza hissed.

Gaffgarion smiled, and his eyes flickered up towards Agrias and Mustadio. "Captain Oaks!" he called. "So delighted to see you! I missed you at Lionel!"

"Silence, knave!" Agrias cried.

"Or what?" Gaffgarion asked. "I have your friends." He gestured vaguely, behind him, and Ramza saw with a sinking heart that a soldier with a cut on his cheek had his axe poised above Alicia.

"We could still kill you," Mustadio said, in a shaking voice.

Gaffgarion chuckled. "I doubt it, boy. But even if you could, you won't walk away. None of you will. Now, if you put your weapons down-"

"And let you slit our throats?" Agrias hissed.

Gaffgarion sighed. "I have been given permission to do what I have to secure the Stone," he said. "And I was asked to bring this one back into the fold, if it was possible." His sword point flickered towards Ramza: Ramza could feel the air from the blade wash across his neck. His hair stood on end. "If he pleads for your safety, I imagine it might actually be granted."

Ramza's mind felt as sluggish as his body, still stumbling to recover from what he had seen and what had been done to him. It took him a moment to follow along. "My brother," Ramza whispered. "You're still working for him."

"My contract with the Church doesn't exclude it," Gaffgarion said.

"You..." Ramza trailed off, his head swimming as embers of anger burned in his chest. By the Saint, how long had he spent dancing on his brother's strings? How many men and women had to die before his brother was satisfied? Before Gaffgarion was satisfied?

"The Church won't spare us," Mustadio said grimly.

"Why not, if you've a powerful enough protector?" Gaffgarion asked. "Stand down-"

"You think we trust a word you'll say?" Agrias snarled. "You tried to kill the Princess!"

"I did," Gaffgarion said. "As I was paid to do. And now I am paid to retrieve the Stone, however I may." He smiled pleasantly. "Why fight when you don't have to?"

Ramza stared up at Gaffgarion. Gaffgarion's eyes weren't on him, but Ramza knew better than to think he wasn't being watched. Gaffgarion was rarely caught by surprise.

"Were you going to kill Alicia?" Ramza asked, in a weak voice, clutching more tightly at his injured hand.

"If I had to," Gaffgarion said. "You were taking too long."

"And Radia?" Ramza asked.

"You think I would kill my own daughter?" Gaffgarion asked, his eyes flicking towards Ramza dismissively.

"Depends on how much you're getting paid."

Gaffgarion's eyes flashed. "All this time, and you still think you can judge me." He gestured around them with his free hand. "You are surrounded. Your friends lives are in my hands. And you risked everything for a Princess who isn't even here."

Ramza felt his stomach drop away. Agrias flinched, and raised her sword. "Where is she?!" Agrias screamed.

"What does it matter?" Gaffgarion asked. "Her fate is out of your hands, as it is out of mine. The powers of Ivalice will decide what to do with her—and I'm afraid that doesn't include poor pawns like us."

Ramza felt a heavy weight of cold pooling in his stomach It was so much worse than he'd realized. Gaffgarion here was already bad enough—what did that say about Dycedarg, or any of the others? But now he found that the Princess had never been here? Had Delita been lied to? Or—oh, by the Saint and all his Apostles how it hurt to think—had Delita lied to them? Had he let them walk into this trap?

His despair and confusion must have shown on his face. Gaffgarion gave him a brief look, and his face shifted. He looked just a little sad. "Do you understand yet?" he asked. "All you've done is delay the inevitable. Even if you can walk away from here with your lives, they won't stop. Lower your weapons. Give up the Stone. Live."

All for nothing. All the blood Ramza had shed, both today and on the many days before. All the choices he'd made, everything he'd ever tried. His grip tightened on his wounded hand, and he traced a nervous pattern on his wrist with a bloodstained thumb.

"They all live," Ramza said.

"Ramza?" Agiras exlcaimed in disbelief.

"Everyone," Ramza said. "You touch a hair on anyone's head, and I'll see you dead."

Gaffgarion smiled in relief. "Good sense at last." For all his relief, his sword did not waver. "But first I'll need the Stone."

Of course. Gaffgarion would not risk his contract. That was his nature—the nature of a man who always got what he wanted, whatever Ramza tried to do to stop him. And such a cunning man was still a pawn like they were—a servant of men like Dycedarg and the Cardinal. Gaffgarion might be an adroit master of the battlefield, but he was not the man who made such battlefields for the sake of their ambitions, time and time again.

What had all these men and women died for? What had Ramza killed for?

"We don't have it with us," Ramza said. "We left it at our camp."

"And I'm to take your word for it?" Gaffgarion asked.

Ramza shrugged. "Search me, if you like."

"Ramza," Mustadio whispered. Ramza's head turned slightly: his friend had his gun in hand, but his eyes were wide with grief and disbelief. "You can't mean...you can't...after everything..."

"I know," Ramza said. "But what choice do we have?"

Ramza jerked his head up, indicating he wanted to stand. Gaffgarion considered him impassively, then took a slight step backwards, giving him room to rise. Ramza shifted his weight, and made as if to stand. At the same moment, he lifted his wounded hand. The rune he'd sketched in blood upon his wrist—the Ydoran rune for fire, which he had spent so long learning under Alicia's instruction—glistened in the dawn light.

He was not the boy he had been when he had first signed on with Geoffrey Gaffarion, uncertain of his place, uncertain what it meant to be a Beoulve. Nor was he the listless killer who had struggled with moral questions on a dozen battlefields. He was not naive enough to think he could win without killing, not foolish enough to think he could change the world alone, and not beaten enough to think it wasn't worth trying. He had fought too long and too hard, he had hurt too many people and lost too much, and even if he knew there was little hope of serving the twin ideals of Justice and Service in a world like this he was not going to give up now. What matter if Delita had lied to him or not? Ramza believed in the cause he preached—in a world where there would no more Miludas, and no more Tetas.

An image of Zeakden aflame filled Ramza's head.

The fire seemed to ignite in his chest first, filling his body with such heat that for a moment he thought he might be boiled from within. Then it exploded out of his hand, as though geysering from the wound Gaffgarion had cut into his palm. Gaffgarion cried out and threw himself to the ground, a little of the fire spiraling down into his chest, but caught off-guard as he was he could not dilute it and that was alright because Ramza had not been aiming for Gaffgarion. He had been aiming just beyond him—towards the gallows, where Alicia lay bound with an axeman poised above her.

The spout of fire chewed through the wooden support beams, and with a creaking croak the gallows pitched to one side. Alicia's chest braced against the chopping block, while her captor tumbled down and hit the ground hard.

But though Razma's legs were weak and his head was spinning and his chest fight tight with exertion, he did not allow himself to rest. There, to one side, a crossbow lay askew, with a bolt wound fast: Ramza lunged for it, scooped it up even as his wound burned with fresh pain. Just before him, the mage who held Alicia's scepter had turned towards Agrias, who had already slain the soldier nearest her He lifted the scepter, and lightning burst from its tip and hammered into Agrias. She slashed with her sword, and the bolts crashed into the blade and her hair burned and her clothing smoked as she roared in pain and rage.

Ramza raised the crossbow and loosed its bolt; the man holding Alicia's scepter fell with blood streaming from his throat, his lightning winking out to leave Agrias staggering but upright.

"FOOL BOY!" bellowed Gaffgarion somewhere behind Ramza, but Ramza did not bother to look back, because he was already charging towards the fallen mage, and he knew there were archers and soldiers all around them, knew these were still long odds but damn it he had meant what he said to Agrias, he had meant that this was worth doing, and even if the Princess wasn't here he did not intend to stand aside and let the whims of the powerful decide who among his friends lived or died.

And he was not fighting alone. He heard the _crack_ of Mustadio's pistol: he heard Agrias' wordless roar. He dropped the crossbow and snatched up the scepter, spun round and fell to one knee, took in the scene once more—Alicia struggling to her feet, Gaffgarion and Agrias with swords locked and the wooden gallows burning behind them, Mustadio staggering back with the shaft of an arrow in his shoulder, his gun hanging limp in his injured arm.

"I will leave you broken and bleeding here, you fucking cunt!" snarled Gaffgarion.

Agrias answered him with another enraged bellow, and the sword in her hand exploded in a blast of white force, throwing Gaffgarion across the gallows, to smack against the far wall. He staggered, but kept his feet. Agrias remained where she was, still howling her fury, covered in burns and blood.

There, above the gate—the unslain archer who had struck Mustadio. Ramza raised his staff and again remembered Zeakden, and the fire that had consumed it. Though his chest was tight and his limbs were heavy, though his hand yet hurt and his head yet swam, he was determined that this would not be another Zeakden—that he would not fail now as he had failed then.

Again, a burst of fire: Ramza nearly fell to one side, his head spinning, and only barely kept the scepter trained upon the archer. The archer screamed as fire consumed him and the platform on which he stood; he fell burning to the ground, clawing at the flames as he tumbled through the air. He hit the ground with a rushing _thmph_ and went still.

Just behind the burning corpse, Mustadio had raised his good arm with gun in hand; from the corner of his eye, Ramza saw rushing movement, and twisted around to find a brawny woman with a gleaming spear barreling towards him. With a _crack_ , the woman stumbled, as blood dripped down from a ragged wound in her shoulder. Ramza tossed the scepter in Mustadio's direction, then rose clumsily from his kneeling position, drawing the twin daggers at his belt. The muscular woman growled and rose to her feet, shifting her stance to the bulk of the spear's weight was on his uninjured side.

What followed would have been comical, if death hadn't threatened him at every step. Without her other shoulder, the woman could barely train her spear on Ramza, much less thrust it with any force. But Ramza was too tired to slip past her guard, too slow to outpace her, too weak to wrest the spear from her grip. So the two of them struggled to wound one another, tripping over their feet as they fought.

He saw a little of his own feeling echoed in the woman's eyes—a little of the baffled, almost amused sensation, that their vengeful rage and determination should have come to this. But if he saw a matching detached amusement, he also saw the other feeling—that feeling of determination and fury, that would not allow either of them to stand aside.

They fought on. What choice was there?

Razma ducked low, slashing, and the woman stepped backwards and tried to pin Ramza but was too slow to catch him. He kept moving, kept slashing, stabbing, even though his legs burned with the effort, even though he was so dizzy he felt he might vomit at any moment. He struggled on in a nightmare vertigo, where brief glimpses of the battlefield beyond reached him through an unsteady, nauseous fog. There, Mustadio scrambled across the dusty gallows ground, with a wounded swordsman in pursuit: there, Agrias was collapsing before Gaffgarion's limping advance, as her wounds overwhelmed her furious vigor; there, Alicia struggled to keep her feet, masked by a fog of smoke and fire.

They needed his help. His friends needed his help.

Ramza forced strength into his legs, forced himself to stand straight even though it made him want to pitch to the ground, and then lunged backwards. The woman followed, spear in hand, and Ramza twisted, spun on his heel and hurled the dagger just as he'd practiced. To her credit, she was good: she twisted aside, landing rather clumsily with her legs spread unevenly. In that moment, Ramza lunged back towards her, dropping his boot upon the place where the head of her spear met the shaft. It was a proper Ydoran spear, well-crafted: the head held. But it unbalanced the woman: she stumbled towards him, struggling to wrest the spear from beneath his boot, and at that moment Ramza plunged the dager down into the silver of open skin above her chainmail, beneath her collarbone. He felt his blade hit the bone, jarring his hand, and the blade dug into flesh at an awkward angle.

The woman gave a scream of pain and threw her body and spear to one side; woman and Ramza fell to earth together, awkwardly entangled, as the spear clattered away somewhere behind him. Ramza clutched desperately at the knife, as the woman hammered elbows, palms, and knuckled into his body, and Ramza yelled in pain and drove his knife in deeper and drove his own elbows into the hard chainmail on the woman's chest, but even wounded she was so strong.

He rolled away, and felt something sharp prick against his side. He gasped, reached for the wound before his hands flinched away from the edge of the fallen spear. In a lightning instant of energy, his hands darted back, closed upon the shaft, and he managed to take his feet. Across from him, the woman was trying to rise: Ramza rushed forward, stumbled, and then shoved the spear into her belly. The chainmail held for just a moment, resisting him, then gave way, and he felt the strange cushiony sensation of a weapon driven through flesh.

The woman stared at him in disbelief, reached up towards her wound, and then fell to one side, the weight of her pulling the spear from Ramza's hands.

"I SAID ENOUGH!" roared Gaffgarion.

Ramza turned towards him. The fires still smoldered in the wooden gallows, but Agrias was splayed you beneath him, with his sword braced across her throat. Her own blade lay a short ways away, just out of reach.

"I will have the Stone!" Gaffgarion shouted. "I have risked too much for it!"

Ramza, empty-handed with all his weapons strewn across the battlefield, shook his head. "You'll have nothing."

Gaffgarion sneered at him. "I'll cut her throat!"

"You're welcome to," Ramza said. "We all came here ready to die."

A lie. An easy lie. No one was ever ready to die—Ramza had just seen it in the eyes of the woman he'd killed, and in the desperation of the archer he'd set aflame. But in spite of that fact, there were things worthy dying for. And maybe Ramza had spoken too quickly, because pinned as she was, with a line of blood on her throat where Gaffgarion's blade had pressed against it, Agrias' eyes still blazed fearlessly.

Which was good, because it made the next lie easier.

"Besides," Ramza said. "If you cut her throat, you die, too."

Gaffgarion chuckled. "I don't care what magic you have, boy-"

"Oh, it's not me," Ramza said. "It's her."

He jerked his head back behind the gallows, where Mustadio and Alicia stood together. The wounded swordsman who had chased Mustadio lay dead a little ways away: Mustadio had just finished cutting through Alicia's bonds with a stolen sword, and returned the scepter Ramza had tossed his way to her hands. Alicia, bruised and unsteady, seemed to glow with sudden life, and she leveled the scepter towards Gaffgarion.

Silence then, save for the crackling of the flames. All the red-cloaked Gryphons of Lionel lay dead or dying around the Gallows.

"You know your magic can't hurt me," Gaffgarion said quietly.

"No," Ramza agreed. "But his bullets can." He nodded towards Mustadio (though the very act of nodding made his head feel so heavy he nearly collapsed), who had leveled his gun at Gaffgarion. "And there's plenty of other weapons around here." He gestured vaguely towards the weapons scattered all around. "Do you think you can dodge all of us?"

Gaffgarion said nothing. His red blade was still braced against Agrias' throat, and his dangerous green eyes were fever-bright.

"You can still walk away," Gaffgarion said. "All of you. Deliver the Stone into the Cardinal's hands-"

"And let men like the Cardinal play their games with the lives of Ivalice?" Ramza asked. "No." Ramza paused for a moment, then said, "But you can, Gaffgarion. You can lay down your sword. You don't have to die here."

Gaffgarion's eyes blazed. "The arrogance-!"

"You're outnumbered," Ramza said. "And surrounded."

Gaffgarion stared at Ramza. Ramza stared at Gaffgarion. And for a moment, Gaffgarion smiled.

"I can't decide if I taught you too well," Gaffgarion said. "Or too poorly."

Then he moved—not towards Ramza, but towards Mustadio and Alicia. Mustadio pulled his trigger as Gaffgarion slashed his sword; the gun _cracked_ as the air shimmered, and Mustadio slumped to the ground, gasping. Alicia jabbed her scepter, which spat bolts of white-hot lightning, but Gaffgarion had already turned aside, leapt cleanly over the burning gallows and rolled to his feet on the other side, a few steps from Ramza, the blood from his fresh bullet wound pouring down his shoulder.

The two men locked eyes, just for a moment. Then Gaffgarion was gone, pelting out into the morning light, his burns already faded by the energy he'd stolen from them, and Ramza could cease his pretense of strength, and fall to his hands and knees, his breath coming in an uneven rasp.

But only for a moment. The battle was won, but their victory not yet assured.

Though his legs ached and his arms quivered, though the wound in his hand still burned and he was so dizzy he might vomit, he staggered down the steps of the gaol. Nor was he alone; Alicia, Mustadio, and Agrias, all bruised and bloody and ragged, followed in his wake. In a haze, they found the keys to cells and manacles alike; in a haze, they half-fell into the gaol proper, unlocking cells and chains; in a haze, Alicia and Lavian collapsed weeping into each others' arms, as Agrias caught them fast in an embrace and then sagged against them for support, and Mustadio leaned against one wall with his gun shoved clumsily through his belt, watching with a dazed smile on his face.

In a haze, Ramza stumbled on with keys in hand,, and found her at the far end of the gaol. She looked up, her green eyes wide with disbelief.

"You came," Radia whispered.

"You would have done the same," Ramza answered, without thinking.

Her eyes screwed up, as she fought against tears. Ramza felt his own eyes burning, and stumbled in to unlock her chains.


	55. Chapter 54: Pointless

(And we're back! Sorry for the long delay, all. Things have settled down a little, so I think I should be able to stick to a more regular publishing schedule at least until we've finished Part 2. Hope you're enjoying the story, and remember, there's more to read at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 54: Pointless**

Trapped behind stone walls once more, but this time her chains were real.

Ovelia sat in the darkness, her head bowed, her wrists sore from the weight of her manacles. How long had she been in the black? Hard to know, in this lightless place, with only irregular meals brought to her by hooded silhouettes outlined by the dim light filtering in through the dungeon halls. All she knew was that six plates of fine food had been brought to her, since Gaffgarion and Vormav Tengille had appeared before her, and revealed to her how trapped she was.

She had thought herself free. But she had simply walked from one cage to another.

And what of her poor Lionesses? Of Agrias, Alicia, and Lavian? Of Radia, whose father had managed to capture her after all? And what of Ramza and Mustadio, sent into Goug for purposes unknown? How badly had she fucked up? How many of the people she loved were wounded or dead?

She slept, from time to time; she nibbled a little at the food they brought her, when the hunger grew too much to bear; mostly, she sat in the darkness, and hated herself for her weakness.

Her door swung open without warning, but this time it was not the guards bringing her her food. It was Delita, with a plate of fine china in one hand and a torch in the other.

She jolted upright where she sat, her chains rattling. Intellectually she knew that the man who'd taken the arrow for her and wished her well must be part of this plot. She'd seen him speaking with Vormav, after all; she knew where his allegiances lay. But for all her knowing, she hadn't really understood until he entered the cell.

A kidnapper and captor, out to use her more surely even than Louveria. Rage fogged her mind, hot and heavy.

She moved without thinking, lunged for the nearest plate and hurled it at him as best as she could with the weight of the chains tethering her. It was a slow, clumsy throw, and Delita sidestepped it easily. He looked over his shoulder at the smeared food against the stone wall, his lips pursed.

"What a waste," Delita sighed, turning back to face her.

Ovelia glared up at him, shaking with rage and helplessness in equal parts. The feeling was so intense that it felt as though it were choking her. She could barely breathe, much less speak.

Delita seemed unperturbed. He looked around her, at the plates still laden with cold food. His lips pulled tighter, as though he'd tasted something sour. "And what food you're not throwing at the wall you're leaving to spoil," he sighed. "Do you intend to starve yourself?"

Still she could not speak. What did it matter what she said? What did any of it matter? She was so weary of being betrayed—by her Queen, by her country, by her guard, and by her Church. Every time she thought she stood on solid ground, it crumbled away, and send it plunging down once more.

She knew it was idiotic to think of Delita's as a betrayal. He had told her from the outset that he was her captor and kidnapper, he had beaten her when she protested, so what matter if he fought for her and bled for her? She had never been someone he cared to protect. She had always been a valuable prize to be preserved.

Delita's dark eyes were on her face now. The burn scars on his cheek gleamed in the torchlight.

"You bastard," she whispered.

Delita's eyebrows arched. "My parents were married. Unlike Ramza's."

"How could you-"

"What, Ovelia?" Delita asked. "Save you from assassins? Try and get you somewhere safe?" He gestured down at her. "None of this is necessary. You could have been comfortable."

"You tried to take me from your guards!" Ovelia said hotly.

"From the guards who couldn't keep you safe!" snapped Delita. "Led you blundering from one trap to the next! If it weren't for me and mine, you'd be long dead."

"And this is better?" Ovelia hissed, rattling her chains.

"You're alive, aren't you," Delita said shortly.

"And Agrias?" Ovelia retorted, and she shouldn't say their names because that brought tears to her eyes but now that she'd started she found she couldn't stop. "Alicia? Lavian? Radia? Mustadio Ramza? What happens to them?"

Delita stared at her. The flickering light of the torch darkened the lines of his face.

"If they die, it's as much on your head as mine," he whispered.

She knew that. She wished she didn't know it quite so well. She wished she couldn't feel it in her gut, a tumorous weight pressing against her bowels, making her blood feel as heavy and as cold as lead. She wished she didn't know that her anger was so much hollow pretense, masking her desperate sorrow and fear.

"Now now," came the Cardinal's deep, cheery voice, and Ovelia jerked out of her reverie as he entered the room, his dark robe pulled tight against his barrel chest, his bald head gleaming in the torch light. Just behind him was the flint-eyed man—was Vormav Tengille, reminder of just how far her enemies' reach extended. "Let us watch our tempers, hm?" He stopped in front of Ovelia, frowning sadly. "This is really no state for someone of your station," he murmured.

"Says the man who put me here," Ovelia spat.

"Really, your Highness," the Cardinal sighed. "Have we not had this discussion? I am bound by necessity as much as you. Well," he added, gesturing at her chains and chuckling. "In a manner of speaking."

"You're telling jokes?" she whispered, in what was supposed to be quiet rage but sounded even to her ears like a desperate attempt not to cry.

"Why not?" the Cardinal replied. "This is a joyous occasion! We stand before our future queen!"

Ovelia stared at him. "What?"

"Did you think I was joking when last we spoke?" the Cardinal asked. "Your claim, by blood and law, is better than Louveria's or Larg's—perhaps better even then Orinus'! And with the support of the Church-"

"Your _support_?!" Ovelia exclaimed, disbelief giving her flickering anger a second wind, and she stood and glared at them, mindful of the way the chains pulled at her wrists. "You have kidnapped me, beaten me, and chained me, and you think-"

"We think you will sit the throne," Vormav said, his voice quiet and disinterested. He wasn't even looking at her. "What other choice do you have?"

Trapped, even without these chains upon her wrists! Trapped with nowhere to go and enemies all around and how panicked and claustrophobic she felt, how tight her breath seemed in her chest.

"What my comrade means to say," the Cardinal added smoothly. "Is the same thing I tried to explain to you. Your Highness, I did not want to waste your time with our discussions. I wanted to show you that Ivalice is dangerous. That a simple life where you live free from the Queen is just a delayed death sentence. Your best hope of safety is to take the throne yourself. We can help you, your Highness. With the support of the Church, you will punish those who have wronged you, and help to enshrine a new and better order for our world."

Ovelia stared between them. Delita still held the torch, staring at his feet. Vormav was watching the wall off to his right, looking rather bored. Only the Cardinal faced her, his arms open and inviting.

Anger cooled, and anxious flutters quieted. The sick helpless feeling seemed to dissipate a little, and she stood a little straighter.

"Where are my guards?" Ovelia asked.

The Cardinal's eyebrows arched. "Your Highness?"

"You captured them, yes?" Ovelia asked. "Do they live?"

Vormav's eyes briefly returned to her, then looked away again. The Cardinal considered her impassively for a moment. His face seemed much less warm and open than it had a moment before.

"They do," the Cardinal said at last.

"And where are they?" Ovelia asked.

Silence again. Ovelia's arms ached and her wrists chafed, but she stood ramrod straight and kept her eyes on the Cardinal's face.

"What does that matter now?" the Cardinal said at length.

Ovelia managed a shaky laugh. "It matters," she said. "It matters, not least because you felt you had to kidnap me."

"One of your chief guards had been hired to assure your death," the Cardinal said genially. "Surely you do not blame us for protecting you?"

"Protecting me?" scoffed Ovelia. "That's a funny word for it. Your man beats me every time I try and run, and every one of your refuses to let me see my guards."

"We do not know if we can trust-" the Cardinal began.

"If _you_ can trust!" she hissed. "I know _I_ can trust them! They've all fought and bled for me. They risked their lives for me!" They lived—the Cardinal said so, and Delita had implied as much earlier. But odds were they in the Church's power, one way or anotherShould she not give in now, and bargain for their lives?

But that was folly. She had been in the Cardinal's care. If he had wanted her cooperation, he might have asked. Instead, he had kidnapped her guards, and locked her in a cell. Instead, he had made it clear that whatever benefit she might derive was tangential to their true aims.

"I have lived in monasteries for most of my life, Cardinal Delacroix," Ovelia began, letting fear and grief and rage shape her words. "Scorned by the house of my fathers and given as a sign of goodwill to the care of the Church. And in all that time, never was I offered your support. Never, until assassins came calling, and you tried to pry me from the care of those who serve me. Why is that?"

The Cardinal looked as though he meant to speak, so Ovelia pressed on. "I'll tell you why. You keep me from my friends because you know they have my interests at heart, and the people who serve me might not serve you. You do not want a Queen with allies of her own, free to decide as she chooses. You want a figurehead, to use as you please." She drew herself up, even as the chains pulled at her wrists. "I am the Princess Ovelia Atkascha," she finished. "And I will not be your puppet."

Silence in the cell. The Cardinal's smile was gone entirely. Delita was still staring at his feet. Slowly, Vormav craned his head to look at her, his head cocked at a quizzical angle. "Curious," the flint-eyed man said at last. "I did not imagine anyone could be so wrong."

"Vormav," the Cardinal said warningly.

"We tried it your way, Alphonse," Vormav said. "But she seems adamant she will not be a willing ally, so-"

"You don't want an ally!" Ovelia sneered. "You want a puppet!"

"You would think you'd be used to it," Vormav observed. "It's the role you've been playing since you were made the Princess."

Ovelia's lips tightened. She glared at Vormav. "I will not be Louveria's bargain for peace," she whispered. "I will not be your path to power."

"You have to be someone's," Vormav said. "It's the only reason you're here, right now. It's the only reason you bear a dead girl's name."

Ovelia kept glaring at him, trying to mask the strange streak of confusion tarring her thoughts. "What's that supposed to mean?" she demanded.

"It means that the real Ovelia Atkascha's been dead nearly fifteen years," Vormav said.

Ovelia tried stubbornly to maintain her glare as that streak of cold confusion spread out like ink unfurling in water. This strange vertigo sensation—the heat of her anger mixed with fear and confusion—felt oddly familiar. It took her a moment to realize that it was almost exactly the way she'd felt when she and Delit had faced off with the Hokuten at the bridge by the Falls. The same sense of a danger unknown and unexpected, as she clung desperately to what little remained of her authority.

"What are you talking about?" Ovelia asked, and could hear the weakness in her voice.

"The real Ovelia died a few months after she was born," Vormav said, with a careless shrug. "Perhaps the Choking Plague, or perhaps a poison that looked the same. Either way, Ondoria's only true heir to the throne was lost—save for what heirs Louveria might bear. The Council of Lords did not want Louveria dictating the future of Ivalice, so they covered up the death and found a child to play the part of the dead Princess. That would be you."

His words were calm, conversational, relentless. Ovelia felt her anger wilting, her thoughts spasming. Ignorant or indifferent to the effect he was having, Vormav continued, "Of course, then Louveria bore a son, and all the Council's careful plans were thrown into disarray. A woman can guarantee the continuation of a line, but her claim is always weaker than the male—particularly not where the throne is concerned. So the Council entreated us to shelter their decoy princess, while they tried to decide what to do."

He smiled slightly. There was something both predatory and disinterested in that smile, like a lion evaluating prey from afar, uncertain whether it was hungry enough to hunt. "You see the joke now, yes?" he asked. "You were never a princess, but you were always a puppet."

"You're lying," Ovelia whispered, so quietly even she was barely aware she'd spoken.

"Agents of the Church were involved in the initial cover-up," Vormav answered. "We have their signed confessions, and the signed confession of the Healer who presided over Ovelia's death, and copies of the letters the Council exchanged...we have enough."

Of course he did. Ovelia hadn't really had much hope he was lying. She could feel the pieces clicking together. Had Ondoria known? Was that why he'd refused to offer her any support, as she was a dagger aimed at his cruel wife's heart? And the Church had profited from the secret. Hence had she been locked away behind the stone walls of convents, monasteries, churches and libraries, kept far from the reins of power, given into the fold of the very people who had enabled the deception.

Vormav suddenly seemed much taller, and so much farther away. Dimly, distantly, Ovelia realized she'd fallen to her knees, and the world was even darker than the torch should have allowed, her vision rimmed by black. Delita moved towards her, his face wild with alarm, but the Cardinal caught him by the arm and pulled him back.

"Who..." she started, unsure what she even meant to ask.

Vormav knelt in front of her. His predator's smile was gone, but his eyes remained as stony and cold as ever. When he spoke, however, there was a note of softness in his voice. "What does it matter who you were before?" he asked. "Now you are a pretend Princess, a puppet whose strings may be cut whenever your grow too bold for your puppeteer's liking."

His tone was almost kind, but that only made his words hit her harder still. She felt like she was drowning in understanding, seeing how clearly she'd been kept from the reins of power, a tool that had been stored away as her owners decided what use to make of her. So what had she suffered for, all these years? Why had she born the scorn of the Queen and the nobles, if not for the sake of peace? Why had Katherine and Ysabel died?

"It's a cruel joke," Vormav said. "Turning a child into a tool that will better serve your needs. That is the kind of mad place Ivalice has become, as it has gone astray from our Saint." Now something else entered his face—an earnest fire that seemed to make his hard eyes glow. "I intend to use you, one way or another," he told her. "But if it's any consolation, I hope to use you so no other children must grow up to be like you."

Consolation? There was no consolation left. Men and women died for her sake, fighting to save her, fighting to kill her, fighting for a puppet. She didn't even know her real name name.

"Your Grace!" came a voice from the infinite distance, and Vormav craned his head. A soldier stood in the doorway. "The mercenary has returned!"

"Alone?" the Cardinal said, in a tone of mute rage.

The soldier nodded. The Cardinal turned away from the Princess. "Vormav," he said.

Vormav nodded, and stood up. "If you'll excuse me," he said, and moved towards the door to the cell. She stared after, registering what they did without quite understanding it, so lost in her own bleak fall that she could barely think.

Movement from the corner of her eye. Delita took a slow step towards her, watching her with his dark eyes, the torch still flickering in his hand.

"Did you know?" Ovelia asked, and was shocked at how her voice sounded—tinny and hollow, empty of emotion.

Delita searched her face, and seemed about to speak.

"Delita!" came Vormav's short, sharp voice, and Delita winced.

"I'm sorry, Ovelia," he whispered, and hurried from the room. The cell door closed behind him, taking the torchlight with it, and Ovelia was left alone in the darkness, with only her thoughts.

Ovelia. Still calling her Ovelia. As though she were a Princess. As though everything—her life, and the deaths of her guards, and the deaths of the men and women who'd tried to kill her—had not been in vain.

Pointless. It was all pointless.

She buried her face in her chained hands and wept.


	56. Chapter 55: Reprieve

(NOTE: THIS UPDATE IS NSFW. That said, I hope you're enjoying the story, and remember, there's more to read at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 55: Reprieve**

 _...For the Ydorans have built a castle of sand and pretend it is an impregnable fortress, but in their hearts they know their weakness, and fear the challenge we may bring against them. So if you follow me, my friends, you will follow me against the powers of the worlds, the cold winds and churning seas of scorn and hate, the storm of fury they will unleash upon us rather than admit our righteousness. But though it may not be easy, I promise you this: our God is a righteous God, and united in his benediction there is no storm we cannot endure, no sea we cannot swim, no Empire we cannot topple._

 _-Balias Gospel, "Ajora's Call to the Disciples"_

Ramza sat besides their little fire, his body aching, his eyelids drooping. Their small company was scattered throughout the shallow cave they'd found in the rolling hills far to the northeast of the Gallows. Lavian alone shared his vigil, still tending to Agrias' wounds as best as she could with Alicia's scepter in hand. The others were all asleep throughout the cave, Radia huddled tight against one wall, Mustadio snoring against another, Alicia curled as close to Lavian as she could be without interfering with her work.

Ramza looked down to his palm. The bloody wound upon now looked a few days old, scabbed over with fresh skin. It was still sore, but Lavian had given him only the barest of ministrations: most of her focus had been on Agrias.

"You need rest," he said, not for the first time.

Lavian shook her long-haired head. "Not until she's better."

"And if we need more healing?" Ramza asked, studying her. Lavian had already been in a bad state when they'd pulled her from the gaol—her face puffy with bruises, her wrists and ankles raw and chafed, her hair mussed and greasy. Now her light brown hair was stringier yet with the sweat still standing out against her forehead, and she was very pale. The scepter shook in her trembling hands as it poured gentle light into Agrias' many wounds.

"I'll handle that, too," Lavian whispered.

Ramza sighed. He still felt weak and stretched thin—casting a significant spell not once but twice, as well as having Gaffgarion drain the strength from him, had exhausted some essential reservoir deep inside him. It had taken all his will just to stay standing, and he had half-slept in the course of their long march to the north, searching for some safe haven in case Gaffgarion should return to finish the job, everyone leaning on each other, shouldering what packs they could.

Lavian may not have participated in the battle, but she had been at work tending to their wounds for hours—first at the Gallows, then along their march, and now tending to Agrias as night settled across Lionel. If Ramza was tired, how much worse off might she be? But if their roles were reversed, would he be doing any different?

While he pondered this, Lavian murmured, "Took me without a fight."

"Huh?"

"Gaffgarion drained me," Lavian said. "Then chained me. Couldn't save the Princess. Couldn't save..." She trailed off, though her eyes flickered to Alicia. "And you're all so hurt, and...and I couldn't..."

The scepter trembled a little more in her hands, and Ramza felt an answering tremor undulating across his spine. He knew they were both thinking of the Princess. Ovelia, who Lavian had failed to save, who Ramza had failed to save, who had been bait for a trap that had nearly killed them all and who had not even been present at the Gallows.

 _Did Delita know?_

"So," Lavian said, swallowing her tears. "I'm gonna...do this. Okay?"

Ramza nodded. "Okay."

His heavy eyelids drooped shut. The next think he knew, he was blinking awake. The fire had died, and all through the cave were the little snores and heavy breaths of the sleeping party. But was that all? No, there was something else, wasn't there? Very soft, so soft he could barely make it out, but unmistakable once he noticed it: footsteps.

He squinted his eyes. The cave was dark, but from there was enough light from the moon and stars to just make out the entrance to the cave. A shadow stood there, looking out. A wiry silhouette, with her red hair askew.

She crept quietly from the cave. Without thinking, Ramza rose clumsily to his aching feet, and stumbled after. Outside, stars and moon cast everything in a ghostly light that felt eerily familiar. It took Ramza a moment to understand why, and when he did, his heart lurched unsteadily in his chest. It looked just as it had when he had stood upon the Lenalian Plateau, with the Valkyries burning behind him, and Delita breaking before him.

But it wasn't Delita standing near the crest of a nearby hill, staring up into the starlit sky. It was Radia, the last living Valkyrie, still moving a little stiffly after her long captivity, her ill-fitting prison smock ragged after their long flight (they'd scavenged some equipment off the dead soldiers, including a fine spear of Ydoran make, but had only stopped long enough to give the Lionesses proper shoes and boots before pressing on).

"I didn't want to wake you," she said, without looking at Ramza.

Ramza shook his head. "I don't mind."

She was still staring up at the sky, so Ramza followed her gaze. God, but how the sky glowed, all those stars blazing with all their quiet lights. Here blue, here red, here a little green, painting an eddying picture of gentle radiance across the black canvas of the night. How long had it been since he simply looked at the stars?

"I'm so sorry, Ramza," Radia said.

Ramza looked down from the sky, and found Radia staring at him. Starlight glistened in the tears on her cheeks. "I...the things I said...and it all...it...

Ramza felt an ache has fierce as any of the ones he'd acquired during the day's battle radiate out like a quiet fire, starting in his heart and spreading down to squeeze his guts and tighten his chest. "You don't have to be sorry for anything, Radia!" he protested. "I'm the one who...Lucavi take me, the things I said to you-" And he remembered the last time he'd seen her, screaming at each other in the hallway, hurting her for no other reason than to mask his own pain and now his eyes were burning with tears and he was moving towards Radia and Radia towards him and she was against him, almost as tall as him so her head was buried in his neck, her breath tickling him even as he sobbed so his sobs were half-laughs.

"I'm sorry," they murmured together, over and over, clinging to each other desperately, sobbing and laughing and sobbing again, and soon standing was too much for Ramza, weak as he was from the hard day's fighting, and they sank down together into the grass on the opposite side of the hill from the cave. Hidden from view, she rested her head against his chest while he stared up at the starlit sky. There sobs had eased, though their faces were still sticky with tears.

"I didn't want you to go," Radia whispered. "I didn't..." There was a hitch in her voice.

"I didn't want to leave you," Ramza answered. "I wanted you with me. When I heard you'd been...when I..." He felt another sob rising in his throat, making it hard to speak. God, he'd been so terrified of what might happen to her. He had kept moving relentlessly, for fear of stopping to think.

"You're not a coward," Radia whispered, her fingers tightening on his ribs. "You try so hard and you never stopped trying and I always loved that about you I just...I didn't..." She buried her face against his chest.

"Neither are you," Ramza whispered fiercely, wrapping his arms as tight around her as he could manage, though his muscles ached in protest. "I can't believe I...after everything you've done, and the way you've fought, and..." He pulled her tighter in spite of his pain, desperate to have her closer, to feel her warmth and reality, to make her feel his own solidity, to somehow apologize in the embrace and assure her he'd never hurt her again.

"You're the bravest person I know," Ramza breathed. "You're the best person I know. You're..." He didn't know what else to say, to express this intense upswelling of warm, choking feeling, of gratitude and relief and grief and sorrow, of desperate, heart-throttling need to make her understand what he was feeling. She shifted on his chest, and he looked down and found her staring up at him, her green eyes sparkling with tears and something else, a feeling Ramza felt stirring in his chest, his guts, his groin.

He wasn't sure, then or later, who kissed who first. It was simply _motion_ , as exhilarating as any dance or fight, as delirious as any drunken buzz, and suddenly she had unfolded against him, her lips against his, her hands trailing over his body, and the feeling in his chest seemed to burst like a bubble, unleashing a fierce wind that blew through his veins and laced his skin with lightning. He felt like he was soaring within his own body—all his aches, his wounds, his tiredness were washed away by the giddy electric thrill.

First the kiss, lips parting ways for tongues, teeth biting him so hard he thought he might bleed, and soon her mouth was on his neck and her fingers in his scalp, leaving currents of fire in their wake, and he wrapped his hands tight around her waist, pulling her as close as he could and she still wasn't close enough, he needed more of her, he needed-

She rocked away from him, and he felt a moment's irritation mingled with fear, she couldn't pull away, he needed more, he ached for more, and then she was pulling the prison smock from her shoulders, her dark nipples rock-hard even in the warm summer air, and she looked so perfect in the gentle glow, her skin seemed to meld with it so she was less a creature of flesh and more a thing of spun starlight, and Ramza was no stranger to arousal but not like this, like a bell ringing in his belly, waves of music radiating out from his stomach so he felt painfully hard and his chest felt painfully tight and if he didn't feel her skin against his he felt that he would surely die.

He sat up in one swift motion, one hand around the back of her neck and one along the small of her back, pulling her closer, and caught one pebbly nipple in his mouth, not sure what he was doing and too wild with desire to care. With a sigh that was half a chuckle and half a moan she ground against him, right along his rigid length, and Ramza gasped and nearly collapsed backwards at the seizuring burst of sensation, but now her strong arms were around him, holding him tight, so tight and so close and so bright and so intense, like the exhausting pleasure of a too-hot bath, and Ramza moaned and pulled her closer, rocking against her in turn.

Then she was fumbling for his leather-and-bronze leggings, struggling to unlace them, and Ramza tried to help but the knots were too tight and his fingers too clumsy. She caught his eye as they struggled to pick loose the knots and suddenly they were both laughing again, leaning into each other, her hands on him, his on her, and the laughter seemed to make everything a little softer. It eased the tightness in his chest and the flock of birds fluttering in his stomach, and he caught Radia and pulled her towards him, kissing her softly this time, trying to savor her, trying to convey with his lips his gratitude, his relief, his gladness.

Calmer now, so together they could undo his leggings, and then her hand was on him (and how strange that was, a hand that was not his own, rougher, different, electric with newness). But then the birds returned in full flapping madness, and Ramza felt himself trembling with trepidation and Radia was rising against him, her bush tickling his stomach, and Ramza giggled nervously and then stared up into her eyes and stuttered, "You know it's...it's my first..."

"I'll be gentle," Radia grinned, and in that grin Ramza discovered a part of her he'd never known. The grin was mischievous, and daring, and earnest, and a little self-conscious. It was so honest, so vulnerable, that Ramza felt dizzy with it. He'd never seen her look more beautiful.

And then she slid down upon him, and Ramza's thoughts were obliterated in warm, wet pleasure.

Slow, so slow, so delicate, and a part of Ramza was grateful and a part of him was aching, because he couldn't imagine handling any more but he _wanted_ more, and he raised his hands to her waist and then flinched away as his wound brushed against her hip, and she caught both his wrists and pinned him down upon the hillside so the blades of grass tickled the back of his hands. Still so slow, and her grin was flickering like a candle in the wind, replaced with something else, with a look Ramza had never seen before, on her or on anyone, a look at once of intense concentration and intense loss, as though she was struggling desperately to remember something but at the same time had just awoken from a full-night's sleep. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes just a little glazed.

Faster now, and every movement stirred something like a heartbeat in him, a heartbeat he could feel from the tip of his cock down to the soles of his feet and up to the hair on his head. Rocking against him, and he against her, staring into her bright eyes, longing for her, lusting for her, and above all else grateful for her, grateful that she was here with him, that he hadn't lost her, that her skin was so close, that _she_ was so close, and he felt himself exalted within her, losing himself in the infinity of her.

Faster, faster, faster, and Ramza could take no more, heedless of the pain he wrested himself free of her pinning hands, wrapped his hands around her hips and forced her to go faster, tried to pull her closer, to feel more of her, even as his mind seemed to be drifting away to some far-away place and he could see something wild in her eyes, and then she sank down upon him, dug her teeth deep into his neck as he took over, rocking her whole body with his aching arms and then she was shuddering, inside and out, and it was too much for Ramza.

He managed to gasp, "I'm-I'm-" and perhaps that was enough, for she pulled away from him, reached down and caught him, kept working him, and the pleasure mounted and mounted until in one tingling exaltation he felt himself come, a punch of pure pleasure that left him mindless.

She slumped against his chest, drawing another gasp from him as she brushed the tip of his penis. She glanced at him with a sly smile, which he returned rather sheepishly. His thoughts were coming back to him, drifting slowly like dandelions. He felt languid with the aftershock of orgasm, warm and buzzing with lust.

Should he say something? He felt like he should say something. But he also felt like he had nothing to say, and even if he _did_ have something to say he wasn't sure he could find the words.

"Your first time, huh?" Radia murmured. Ramza looked down at her, found her green eyes a little dreamy, a sleepy, satisfied smile on her face.

Ramza tried to shrug nonchalantly without disturbing her place on his chest. "When would I have...you've been with me the past two years."

"But not before, huh?" Radia asked. Ramza shook his head, and Radia chuckled. "Wow, you must think I'm a slut."

Ramza shook his head again, rather more fiercely than he intended. "No, I don't...you're..." But then he caught the devilish gleam in her eyes, and exclaimed, "You're making fun of me!"

"Can't blame me," Radia said. "It's easy."

"Just like you," Ramza shot back.

Radia punched him lightly in the side of his ribs. Ramza grinned, and wrapped an arm around her. He liked the warm feel of her, the tingling of her skin against his, the pressure of her body against his chest and thighs.

"I'm not your first," Ramza said. It wasn't a question.

"Nah," Radia said.

"So I'm your...?"

"Third."

"Who-" Ramza started, and broke off. Christ, was that something he was supposed to ask? What if he offended her?

"First was a boy," Radia said, apparently unperturbed. "Son of one of my dad's contacts. Saw each other every couple months for awhile, and one night we got into my dad's whiskey..." She shrugged. "Second was one of the Valkyries."

"One of the..." Ramza stared at her. "I thought...weren't all the Valkyries..."

"Women?" Radia said, with a sly grin. "Yeah."

"Oh," Ramza said, and just allowed that pleasant thought to percolate for awhile.

"You like that, huh?" Radia asked.

"What?" Ramza said, jolted from his dreamy reverie. "What do you-"

"I can feel it."

Ramza flushed. "Oh." God, this wasn't how he'd imagined...not that he'd spent all that much time imagining, but he'd surely thought of it occasionally, when she'd huddled against him for comfort, or when he'd clung to her to help ease his doubts, but was that weird, was that-?

"Seriously, though," Radia said. "No one else?"

"I kissed someone, once," Ramza said.

"Who were they?"

Ramza closed his eyes against the flash of memory and grief—the dark eyes beneath the clay-red hair. "Teta."

Silence for a long time. "Oh," Radia said at last.

Silence again. Ramza's head was heavy with Teta now—Teta, who he had failed to save. Teta, whose brother may have sent them headlong into a trap. Their victory had been such a near thing, and Agrias was still hurt, and who knew what the night would bring, or the days that followed? Who knew what else they might risk? What else they might lose?

A terrible thought occurred to him, so thick and fearful it choked him. He swallowed against his dread, and struggled to form the words. "Your second," Ramza said. "The Valkyrie...I...I didn't...did I?"

Radia shook her head: he felt it against his chest. "No," she said. "Hokuten skirmish, a month before I met you."

Ramza felt a warm flood of relief that was immediately chilled by guilt. She had lost someone she cared about, and Ramza had felt relieved it wasn't him or his friends that had done the deed. What if he hurt someone else she loved? What if he hurt Gaffgarion?

As though she could read his thoughts, Radia said, "My dad...he's okay?"

Ramza opened his eyes to find that Radia's were scrunched tight. "He seemed fine," Ramza said cautiously.

Radia made a strange grunting noise that was somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "Should I be glad, or mad?"

"Why not both?" Ramza asked.

The next sound she made was much more of a laugh. "That'd fit the pattern." She clung closer to him, and he wrapped both arms around her. They were quiet for a time: Ramza felt almost drowsy with her presence.

"I don't want him to die," Radia said.

Ramza looked down at her. Her eyes were open again, looking up into the starry sky. He followed her gaze, and felt the gleaming stars somehow echoing his own strange feelings, the mix of cold and analytical distance and warmth and brightness. He found he was smiling.

"I know," Ramza said.

"I...my mother, and...Captain Miluda, and Carmen, and Teta, and everyone...and I know my dad is...I know!" She shook her head fiercely. "But why...I just..." She sighed, and buried her face against his chest again. "Why's it like this, Ramza? Why's it so fucking hard?"

Ramza stayed quiet. "I dunno, Rad," he said at last, with a little emphasis on the nickname she hated.

She snorted and smacked his chest. "Don't call me that."

He smiled a little, and lowered his voice. "Really, though. I...I don't. I...after Teta..." He remembered Zeakden again (or was it still? It seemed Zeakden was always with him now, as it had been the moment he saw Delita illuminated by lightning). "Zalbaag and I...our swords were out, but I don't know if I could have...

He trailed off, not sure what he was trying to say, his head thick with the memory of his brother in the snow and Teta's corpse beyond. To drown the thought, he kissed the crown of Radia's head, and breathed deep the sweaty, earthy scent of her. "I don't know why," he whispered. "But I know what it's like."

She caught his hands with hers, interlaced her fingers, and squeezed tight, pulling him closer against her. They stayed like that for awhile.

"Ovelia wasn't there?" Radia said, in a small voice, and just like that Ramza's languid post-sex calm was sundered entirely, because it was Ovelia he was trying desperately not to think about. All the risk of the past few battles, all the desperate combat, the men and women he'd killed at the Gallows, the life and limb they'd risked plunging into a trap...none of it had saved Ovelia. She hadn't even been there to be saved.

 _Did Delita know?_

Ramza shook his head against the grim question. Radia sat up, the starlight outlining the contours of her wiry body, the slight teardrop swell of her small, firm breasts, the delicate curve where ribs tapered down at the waist. "It's not right," Radia said.

"No," Ramza said, though his voice was thick with fear again. Because for a moment he had triumphed, snatching Radia, Alicia, and Lavian from the clutches of their enemies and protecting his friends through a difficult battle, but all that victory masked a bitter truth. They had set out to save a Princess, and that Princess was yet beyond their reach.

"I wanted to...I really..." She shook her head, her greasy red hair sliding around her thin face. "Being a Lioness? Serving her? It just...it feels right."

Of course it did. In the short time Ramza had known her, Ovelia had been nothing but exemplary—compassionate, bold, brave, and determined, fearless in spite of the scale of the forces set against her. Ramza had not really understood loyalty until he'd met her. He'd never known anyone he was more wiling to fight for. She was his friend, yes, but more than that, she was his Princess.

"I'm with you, Radia," Ramza said.

"I know," Radia said. She ran her fingers through his thick blonde hair, then caressed the back of his neck with the tips of her fingers, tracing fingertips along his skin in a way that sent rivulets of slow lightning through Ramza's scalp and shoulders. He leaned into her touch, trembling a little, then reached for her hand with his own, letting his fingers walk slowly up her bare arm, just grazing her breast before coming to rest upon her back. Even with his heavy thoughts, the sight of her—the _feel_ of her!—was intoxicating: he struggled desperately to control himself and keep his fingers moving, trying to do something for her, too. He forced his fingers to move in that same slow, delicate, deliberate way, sketching a path around her shoulder blade and up her spine. She seemed to like it—she stretched against him like a preening cat, and the feel of her made him stiffen painfully, a hardness he could feel in his belly.

With his other hand, he cupped her cheek. She was looking at him, her eyes a little glazed, not quite smiling, and he let his hand trail down, just between the valley of her breasts, sketching a path down through her course pubic hair, until he touched something wet.

She gasped, and grabbed at his hair as though clinging to driftwood in a storm.

As the stars began to fade a little before the pre-dawn glow on the horizon, Ramza clumsily laced his leggings and then helped Radia find her clothes. Then hand-in-hand they made their reluctant way back to the cave they'd left behind, both a little sweatier than they had been before. She gave him one curious look as they crested the hill, and spied the dreamy look of concentration on his face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I just like the way you taste," he said, and was surprised at his own boldness.

She laughed, and pulled him along towards the cave. But as they drew closer, the afterglow faded to embers once more. The cave was not as quiet as it had been: there were sounds of arguing and alarm. Then they heard Agrias' strident voice: "UNHAND ME!"

They released each others' hands, and jogged for the cave.

Inside, they found everyone awake. Floating lights hung near the ceiling, casting everything in a shadowy illumination. Mustadio, Lavian, and Alicia, were all struggling with Agrias, who was trying to force her way past them.

"You have to rest!" Lavian pleaded, pushing against Agrias' shoulders.

"There is no _time_ for rest!" Agrias spat, moving jerkily and awkwardly as her various wounds and pains troubled her. "They have the Princess!"

"We can't save her if you're dead, Captain!" barked Alicia, grappling with Agrias, trying to force her back down to the ground.

"Get out of my way!" Agrias bellowed, and in spite of her injuries and the strain of the past day she seemed about to overwhelm the others.

"Agrias!" Ramza said, hurrying to help

Agrias lifted feverish eyes to Ramza's face. "We failed, Ramza!" she shouted. "They have her and...and...!"

Her eyes glazed over (not unlike Radia's, Ramza thought, with a mixture of shock, guilt, and amusement), and she sank to one side, suddenly much paler . Mustadio caught her, and lowered her gently to the ground again. "It's alright," he said quietly. "Really. You're okay. You're okay." Lavian took up the scepter again, but Alicia snatched it from her hands.

"Give it back," Lavian said, glaring at her.

"You're exhausted," Alicia retorted. "I can do the basic healing."

"Not like I can."

"There's...no time...for..." Agrias muttered, fighting to rise again, but her breathing came in quick gasps and her eyes were glassy and her hair was damp with the sweat of her exertion.

"Stay down!" Mustadio said, wincing a little as he used his injured arm to keep her pinned

"Here, Lavian," Radia said, and put her hand on the other woman's shoulder. Something shimmered from her hand and into Lavian: Lavian straightened, looking a good deal more awake than she had before, as Radia hunched over a little, her face screwed up. Ramza was at her side in a moment, helping her to her feet, trying to reassure her with his touch (and eager to touch her again, if he was being honest).

"You didn't need to do that," Lavian said, her full lips pursed.

"Yeah I did," Radia answered, leaning heavily on Ramza.

For a moment, every one looked at each other. Everyone so busy trying to sacrifice themselves for the group, or for the people they cared about. Everyone heedless of their injuries and exhaustion, desperate to make amends. In every face, the same mingled look of exhaustion, fear, doubt, and gratitude. In every eye, the same sense of belonging.

Baron Grimms had offered Ramza a chance at being a part of something righteous again. But Ramza had found a better company all on his own. A company who made him feel like he could be righteous, and win through.

"We don't know where the Princess is," Ramza said. "But I bet the Cardinal does."

All eyes turned to him. He felt himself prickle uncomfortably beneath the weight of their expectations, but tried to look as though he were unperturbed. As though he were sure, and confident, and as though his thighs didn't still ache, his hand still itch, his skin still tingle.

"You are suggesting we take Lionel?" Mustadio asked.

"Yes," Ramza answered.

"How?" Alicia asked, but she didn't sound incredulous. She sounded curious.

They believed in him. They really believed they could take a nearly-impregnable castle, wounded and scattered as they were. And for a moment Ramza felt choked by that belief, claustrophic with the fear of ailing them as he'd failed Teta and Delita.

But then Radia caught his eye, and something in her gaze steadied him. She was leaning on him, but somehow it felt as though he were leaning on her.

"We took the Gallows with three," Ramza answered. "I think the six of us can make short work of a castle."

Mustadio's lips twitched up into a real smile. Alicia and Lavian's eyes sparked. Even Agrias seemed a little calmer.

"When do we start?" Agrias asked.

"After you rest," Ramza said. "After you heal."

Agrias closed her eyes, and at last nodded reluctantly. Lavian took the scepter from Alicia and started tending to Agrias' wounds once more. And Radia's hand reached out and took Ramza's hand in hers.

Though the risks were many, none of them had given up hope. They would yet try to save the Princess. Perhaps their cause was foolish, but at least none of these fools would try alone.

Ramza smiled at Radia, and squeezed her hand in turn.


	57. Chapter 56: A Grim Night's Work

(Thanks for reading, everyone! If you're hungry for content, there's always more to read at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 56: A Grim Night's Work**

The first attacks came at dawn.

From Lionel Castle, nestled behind its high cliff walls, they could not hear the explosions. They had no inkling of what had happened until a singed messenger rode in, pleading for help. The Gryphon Knights operated little patrol stations along all the major Ydoran thoroughfare, little more than glorified sheds with a stable for a chocobo and room for two men inside. Almost every one of these around the city of Lionel proper had been attacked with some manner of explosive magic.

' In response, the garrisons of Lionel proper were mustered out to patrol the surrounding roads, wary of any new attack attack. But come noon, a thunderous boom echoed and reverberated behind the cliffs that guarded the castle. When no messenger came, the castle garrison dispatched its own scouts, and found that one of the larger garrisons in the city had been leveled by an explosion set off by putting the torch to its gunpowder stores.

But not before they had been raided, it seemed. The first gunpowder bomb detonated late in the afternoon, setting a clerk's office ablaze...and burning the receipts and records of tithes taken in from the Lionel churches. Throughout the afternoon and evening, gunpowder bombs and magical explosions seemed to appear at will across the city, striking at places precious to the Church and the Gryphons. More and more soldiers were called up from the castle, until the city was thick with Gryphon Knights looking for the culprits. Until only a skeleton crew manned the walls.

In the thickest dark of the night, long after the soldiers of Lionel Castle had been dispatched to search the city, the door to the gatehouse burst open, and Ramza stepped through with a bloody Ydoran spear between his hands. The gatehouse was less a house and more a room build into the base of the wall, guarded by thick oaken doors with the mechanism for opening and closing Lionel's mighty gates near at hand—a sizable winch connected to an elaborate network of geras

Gaffgarion was not surprised to see his old pupil. But Ramza was surprised to see his old mentor—his eyes went wide, and he raised his spear in a clumsy parry as Gaffgarion darted for the kill.

"Just like the pirates eh, Ramza?" Gaffgarion said, focusing on his field the way old Cecil had taught him, imagining his magic as a separate limb and grasping with it, wresting Ramza's energy from him. Ramza staggered back, his face white with strain, his eyes gleaming feverishly.

Even with his prodigal protege in front of him, a part of Gaffgarion's mind was back in the past. Pirates had seized control of a Fovoham town and ruled with terror from an old fort: Gaffgarion, Radia, and a handful of other mercenaries had set fire to the tavern where half the pirates had been holed up, and Ramza had slunk inside to take on the skeleton crew. Admittedly, the taking of Lionel Castle was a far more ambitious enterprise, but the form was the same: challenge the enemy in the open, so as to weaken their stronghold and decapitate their leadership.

The cliff walls complicated matters, but not unduly. After all, Gaffgarion, Ramza, and Radia had once climbed a sheer mountainside so as to kill a mage bandit who had been harassing merchants in Zeltennia. Gaffgarion knew the boy had the skills, but had not known what route he might take (and what powers he might have to back him, not after that great spell he'd cast back at the Gallows) and so had chosen to wait for him in the gatehouse, where he must surely come if he inended to admit his friends.

And here he was, just as Gaffgarion had predicted. Here was the fool, rushing in to kill himself trying to stand against the powers of the world. If he so longed for death, Gaffgarion could grant it to him.

Nearly a week since the battle the Gallows, and both men had their strength again. Ramza's field resisted him stubbornly, giving him only the dregs of its energy: at last, Ramza thrust him back, and the two men faced each other, their faces cast in shadow.

"Just like the pirates," Ramza agreed, his spear pointed at Gaffgarion's torso as his eyes studied his face. "But they only wanted the town. You and yours want the country."

Gaffgarion laughed and took a step towards Ramza, his sword held carelessly at his side (in such a way that it would be easy to flip up into a guard at the first sign of movement—Gaffgarion was no fool). "Me and mine? I'm a hired sword, as I've ever been."

"Hired by monsters," Ramza spat.

"Hired by men," Gaffgarion retorted. "Like any others. Better-intentioned than most, in fact."

Ah, but all their good intentions would not spare him from their wrath, should he fail again. He had purchased his life with a dutiful report and the claim that he could still catch Ramza: he could not afford to lose this fight. He well-remembered Baerd's screams, and the warning that had preceded them. Success rewarded. Failure punished.

"As if their intentions matter to you," Ramza said. "As long as they're pay-gah!"

He ducked back as Gaffgarion lunged, aiming for his throat, fighting for his field. Gaffgarion felt a piece of it tear lose, felt it in a sudden flush of strength, his tiredness washing away. Stronger in the thick of the fight, as he'd always been. That was the great asset of the Draining Blade: that as his foes weakened, Gaffgarion grew stronger. So had he learned to fight across the battlefields of Ivalice. He might have spent his lifetime in running, but it was running that never wearied him, running that he excelled at.

Just a little farther. Just a few more dirty deeds before he could finally stop running.

They parted ways again, circling each other like wolves, Gaffgarion calm and strong, Ramza panting with exertion. "As long as they're paying?"Gaffgarion asked, as though he had not just tried to kill Ramza (he had found over his years that a casual and professional veneer could be infuriating to opponents as any insult: it made them feel powerless). "That's our profession."

"Your profession," retorted Ramza. "Not mine."

Gaffgarion laughed. "You were a mercenary for two years, boy," he said. "You've been a rebel for...what, a month? Serving a rebel princess and killing good and loyal men, but let's imagine these are good deeds. Do you think they wash away two years of sin?"

Ramza flinched as though struck. "I'm doing what I think is right."

"A child yet!" sneered Gaffgarion. "Good God, boy, how can you stomach your hyopcrisy!"

"You speak to _me_ of hypocrisy?" Ramza exclaimed, driving Gaffgarion back with a series of clumsy thrusts.

"And why not?" Gaffarion demanded. "Power and privilege the likes of which most can only dream, and you threw it away! Threw away your position! Threw away your name!" He parried Ramza's last spear thrust, drove forward again, pulling at Ramza's magic, feeling little fragments of it sucked away within him, a constant undercurrent of vitality and rejuvenation that made him feel as though he could swing his sword forever.

Yes, Ramza Beoulve had everything Gaffgarion had ever wanted in easy reach, and walked away from it. No, that wasn't right: walking away implied a choice. It gave credence to the lie that Ramza was taking some principled stand. He had run away, just like he was running now—running from the difficulties and complexities of the world. Running because he had been hurt once, and was scared of being hurt again.

He would never stop running. He would never stop fleeing in the world of selfish fantasy—the world where good intentions wrought good deeds, and the virtuous lived happily ever after. He would play a hero, just like Radia, and suffer for it. And perhaps Gaffgarion could throw up his hands and leave him to his delusion, except Gaffgarion was not running away from the world, but towards the safety and security he had so long craved. The boy who had had that safety was standing in his way, and Gaffgarion had not spent decades fighting his way through this wretched world to have all his plans torn apart by one mad fool who refused to see clearly.

He moved again, striking with all his strength, prying at Ramza's field, draining his magic with every moment, draining his strength with every blow of his tireless swordarm, and with every moment Ramza's steps grew slower, his thrusts more feeble. Too tired for words now, exhausted at last, and perhaps Gaffgarion could end this without killing him but that time was past. Ramza had proven he would not learn, and there was only one sure cure for fools.

Ramza twisted, thrusting his spear towards Gaffgarion's chest. Gaffgarion ducked, slashed up and knocked the spear wide. With the same motion, he ducked low and brought his sword slashing down. Ramza tried to dodge, too slow: Gaffgarion's crimson blade cut across his armored front, tore through the metal and carved into flesh, and Ramza cried out in pain.

A stab of guilt, just for a moment, as the spear clattered from Ramza's grasp as his desperate hands clutched at his fresh wound. For a moment, Gaffgarion did not see the fool who would put all his plans to ruin; he saw the boy who had slept in his cottage, and in his tent, and who had fought at Gaffgarion's side through so many battles these past two years.

He allowed himself his moment of guilt, but he did not allow it to slow him down. He had offered the boy a chance to live: he had been refused. The boy wished to resist the tides of the world. Gaffgarion would teach him how irresistible those tides were. One last lesson, before the end.

Gaffgarion lunged for the kill, slashing for Ramza's throat; Ramza twisted to one side, reached down with his bloody hands and drew his daggers from his sides. He kept twisting, spinning, slashing wildly, and Gaffgarion followed relentlessly, jabbing with his sword, sapping more of Ramza's fleeting strength. Cecil's Ydoran sword made that possible—a sword made for Vampire Knights like himself, in a time when they had been some of the best of the Ydoran forces. Even without the sword, Gaffgarion was good enough to keep most enemies off-balance: with it, he was a terror.

He knocked one dagger from Ramza's hand as the boy stumbled backwards through the open door, nearly falling outside. There was no moon up above, and the stars were gleaming pitilessly over the castle grounds. The runelight from the high wall showed Ramza's pitable state, bloodied and pale and panting, one hand slashing with his dagger, the other clutching at his wound. Gaffgarion followed grimly, feeling strong and fresh and furious. He did not especially want to kill Ramza, but the boy had left him no other choice. He spat on his attempts to teach him; he betrayed his attempts to spare him.

The boy slashed: Gaffgarion twitched his wrist, and the dagger went flying off into the night. Ramza shrank back, fists held up defensively, gasping and pale, and wild-eyed.

This was what it had come to. All his power, all his opportunity, and he would die here like any other fool, rather than except the murky compromises this world required of you.

"Goodbye, Ramza," Gaffgarion growled, lunging towards him.

Movement from the corner of his eye. Gaffgarion hotfooted it backwards, head jerking around to search for the source even as he kept Ramza in the corner of his gaze so he could not be taken off-guard. But there was nothing visible, just a faint trace of movement in the air, like motes of dust in a sunbeam. There was something familiar about that movement, though, something that brought to mind Orbonne Monastery—that last happy day, when he and Ramza and Radia had walked together into one of the most lucrative contracts of their lives, before everything had spiraled out of control. God, he had not known he missed it so. Those days had been so fraught and strange, but with Ramza and Radia at his side the world had felt full of purpose and potential.

Then he remembered the last time he'd seen that strange movement in the air. He remembered the tell-tale shimmer of someone cloaking themselves with magic upon a hill outside Orbonne.

Gaffgarion snapped up his sword as Alicia bubbled back into view, her magic rippling inwards to reveal her body, her scepter pointed towards him. Lightning crackled at its tip, ready to burst towards him, and Gaffgarion was already shifting his field, trying to pull at the bolt the same way he pulled at the magic of his enemies, and it wasn't so different because a spell was simply the magnified and refurbished field of his enemy, ripe for the taking. It was delicate work, though, hastily untangling the spell, dissipating what he could not simply absorb, and-

And his field faltered, as powerful arms wrapped tight around his shoulders, and jerked his blade to one side. Gaffgarion twisted his head, shouted in rage as he spied Ramza's pale, sweaty face-

And then the bolt burst free, and hammered into them both with searing force. And Gaffgarion bellowed with pain as his hand clenched desperately at his blade, struggling to convert that lightning into strength but it was hard, too hard, Ramza was screaming into his ear and yet at the same moment had entangled his field with Gaffgarion's, pressed upon it so every effort felt like trying to moving a hand through mud, and without his field he could not transform this lightning into strength so it felt like his body was burning inside and out and still Ramza fought him, and Gaffgarion could divert and disrupt the lightning but he could not best it and he could not steal Ramza's strength so all that was left for him was the hurt.

The endless instant of crackling agony ended as abruptly as it had begun. Gaffgarion collapsed to his knees as Ramza fell away behind him. Almost as soon as he had hit the ground Gaffgarion was moving again, stumbling back towards the gatehouse, trying to get clear of that awful scepter or any other attackers, his eyes raking the wall above him in search of some new assault, moving even as his body burned with pain.

But the new assault came from behind him—a shuddering, staggering impact that knocked him off of his feet and sent Cecil's sword flying from his hands. He caught himself on his palms, scrabbled to his feet as Ramza drove forward again, slamming his shoulder into Gaffgarion's chest plate with winding force. Gaffgargion bellowed in pain, his too-tight skin itching with it, and he'd diverted as much of the lightning as he could but he was still hurt and it was Ramza's fault, it was the boy's fault-!

Ramza struck towards him again, and Gaffgarion ducked low, rammed forwards and caught the boy's torso with his own shoulder, pivoted and hurled him over his shoulder like a sack of grain. He turned, mindless with anger and pain, mindless with the need to drown some his pain by inflicting it upon someone else, and saw too late that Ramza was rising to meet him with a red sword in his hand.

Cold pressure, like someone had driven an icicle into his gut. Gaffgarion's world suddenly felt very sharp and very clear. There was an impact somewhere in his soul, as though he had had the wind knocked out of him, and he could _feel_ his magic draining away, sucked out of him in one clean breath, and he watched with wide, disbelieving eyes as Ramza's mottled burns puffed back to health.

Ramza pulled out the sword (and _that_ hurt, a burst of strange fire in his guts, stirring little embers of pain across his body), and Gaffgarion gasped and staggered backwards. He slumped against Lionel's lofty wall, clutching at his wound, feeling the aches and pains, the peculiar burns and jarring echoes of broken bones. He stared at Ramza in disbelief, trying to make sense of what had happened.

"I...I don't..." He shook his head. "What are..."

Ramza knelt in front of Gaffgarion. His face was visibly pale, even through the darkness. "I wasn't trying to open the gate," he said. "I was trying to clear out the guard."

"Trying to..." Gaffgarion murmured, and then realization dawned on him. "Oh. Oh, that's rather clever."

Yes, of course. The plan had never been to open the gate. Ramza had made the climb, just as Gaffgarion had predicted, but after he had climbed and cleared the watchers from the walls he had anchored ropes for his comrades to follow after. If the gates were closed, and the guard slain, then no reinforcements could rush back to the castle. There would be no escape for the Cardinal.

And Gaffgarion almost chuckled in spite of his pain. Bold, this plan. Half a dozen soldiers against one of the great fortresses of Ivalice. Against a military man with his own forces, and the weight of the Glabados Church behind him. Bold, and foolish. So foolish.

More figures emerged from the darkness, one-by-one. First the two mages: then Agrias; then Mustadio; and last of all, there was Radia. She dropped to one knee besides Ramza.

"Fools..." murmured Gaffgarion, too hot in his face, too cold in his guts, everything strange and warped and distant. "Both of you..."

"I know," Radia said softly, stroking his cheek.

He looked up at the two of them—so tall, so remote, so much stronger than he remembered. He struggled to find the words. "I wanted...you deserve..." He sighed, and that sigh seemed so much harder than it should be, wheezing out of a tight chest.

Children, playing at heroics. Didn't they know how such stories always ended? The suffering that would follow in their wake? Their greatest deeds frustrated, their little triumphs made bitter by the weight of time? Nothing good lasted in Ivalice. Eventually the powerful would reclaim what they had lost, and punish anyone who had dared to challenge their rule. They had seen what became of the Death Corps. They had to know how this story ended

But look at them, with tears in their eyes and yet no hint of weakness. Hurting, agonized, and determined all the same. Still the same fools they'd always been, for all the lessons he'd tried to teach them. Another failure to add to his long list.

By the Saint, what a miserable life. And here he'd though himself content with his unhappiness, but as death closed it he found it rankled. How close had he been, to putting an end to his running? How many times had he risked his life, and bloodied his hands? Only to fail here, at the hands of a boy he'd tried to save. God, he'd just wanted to rest. He'd just wanted to be free.

So dim, so dark, so distant. Their faces floated like moons in the night, glowing with a life that was leaving him.

"It...will end...badly," he sighed. "You...you know that."

Ramza and Radia exchanged the slightest glance, then tunred back to him. "Maybe," Ramza said.

"But we're still gonna try," Radia said, her voice tight.

"Of...of course..." Gaffgarion chuckled. "Fools to...to the last."

Ah, their faces were fading away with the pain. Everything felt hazy and distant, almost serene. A part of Gaffgarion was glad for this last moment of peace, that he might pass into death so easily. A part of him detested it. He didn't want to die. He wanted to keep running. He wanted whiskey and a good book, and to rest his feet by a crackling fire. He wanted to _live_.

But he knew better than to think his wants would change his fate. The world cared little for the desires of men. At lease there was time enough for farewells.

"Goodbye...boy..." Gaffgarion murmured, focusing on the blurred outline of Ramza's face.

"Goodbye, Gaffgarion," Ramza said, and there were tears in his voice, too. What a fool, to weep for an enemy who would have killed him. What a damnable fool, who had been born to everything Gaffgarion had ever wanted, and still insisted on this miserable life.

He turned away from the fool he couldn't save, and tried to find his daughter's face. He remembered the first time he'd seen it—angry, bitter, and tired from the long war, returning to Limberry in search of a daughter he half-expected was someone else's brat, forced upon him by guilt and old obligation. But then she had looked up at him, with her mother's red hair hanging heavy on her shoulders, and her father's green eyes sparking at him with defiant fear. From that moment, he had loved her face, and the girl who had worn it. From that moment, something strange had settled on him, and he understood that he had to protect her, one way or another—from the cruelties of the world, and from the kind and loving heart that would make it a still-crueler place for her.

But he could not see her face now. The darkness was too thick, an impenetrable veil of fading night, and Gaffgarion felt a noxious disappointment choke him. Too bad, that. He would have liked to see her face, one last time.

"Goodbye...dear...daughter..." he sighed.

All for nothing, wasn't it? All his attempts to be safe and secure, all his attempts to teach them, all his attempts to save him. Saint above, he didn't want to die like this. Warm and gentle as this darkness was, he despised it.

Then a voice drifted out of the dark, and though it was tight with grief it seemed like music to his ears, a lullaby quieting his thoughts and soothing his abraded mind. He felt himself relaxing to the sound of that voice, no longer fighting the darkness, no longer resenting what had brought him hear. He closed his eyes so a curtain of absolute void blanketed his thoughts, drifting away on the waves of that beloved voice.

"Goodbye, Dad."

Oh, my daughter. I hope you're happy, whatever comes.


	58. Chapter 57: The Cardinal's Offer

(Thanks for reading, everyone! If you're hungry for content, there's always more to read at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 57: The Cardinal's Offer**

 _...so many versions of the Zodiac Brave Story across the ages, but some details change surprisingly litle. There are 12 Stones (or sometimes 13, if the apocryphal Serpentarius is included), and the heroes wield them together against a great evil—a wicked emperor, or a sinister conspiracy, but most often their enemies are the Lucavi, demons of myriad forms and terrible powers. As with all myths, it is hard to discern how much is truth and how much is fiction, and enough indications of both to prove extra confusing. Some stories are clearly fanciful, and some embellishments, but some seem to map to actual events and even geological records. This is especially true of the Lucavi: some are monsters too ridiculous to be believed, but some records (such as the battle at the summit of Mt. Gulg) are more-or-less verifiable—something of extraordinary power reawoke that old volcano. So if we except that at least some of the myths are founded on truth, we are left with a daunting question: what exactly were the Lucavi? Mages of extraordinary power? Beasts of unprecedented magical ability? Or were they truly demons summoned from a world beyond our own?_

 _-Alazlam Durai, "In Search of Myth"_

Though there was little time—though they were in the stronghold of their enemies, and the army they had distracted could return in force at any moment—they waited until Gaffgarion had ceased to move, and his glassy eyes had fluttered closed. Ramza did not quite dare to move—it was the first time he had ever drained anyone so completely, and the sharp shift from staggering agony to relative health felt surreal and dreamlike.

That, and he did not want to see Radia's face.

He fucked her one night, and killed her father the next. What kind of man was he? What kind of monster?

"Ramza," Radia said, her voice soft, almost calm, with just the faintest ragged edge of grief.

Ramza swallowed against the dryness of his throat "Yes?" he said, and he could hear the tension and guilt in his own voice, coiled so tight he sounded like he might crack at any moment.

"I'd like his sword."

Ramza looked down to the sword he still held in his hand, its red blade made redder still with her father's blood. With Gaffgarion's blood. With the blood of the man who had taught him, protected him, betrayed him, and tried to kill him. With the blood of the man Ramza had ultimately killed.

When he had stood above the old man, Ramza had suffered that peculiar doubled vision again. For a momoment, itt had not seemed like Gaffgarion was dying alone. For a moment, Argus' shadow had hung heavy over him, and he had been ankle-deep in the snows of Zeakden once more.

"Ramza."

Ramza looked up, and found Radia watching him. As it had before, her gaze nearly shattered him: her green eyes watery with tears and yet still so bright and fierce, so determined. Her hand was extended towards him.

Without speaking, Ramza flipped the sword around, holding it by the flat of the blade so Gaffgarion's blood oozed between his fingers. She took the hilt of the sword, and rose to her feet, studying the bloody blade. Ramza was unable to bear the sight of her: he turned away, stumbling back inside the gatehouse to grab his spear.

He wrapped his hand its solid wooden shaft, and remembered the woman he'd killed to claim it—the woman with those eyes like his, a little amused in spite of their grim circumstances, and determined all the same to stop him. For a moment, his grip tightened on the spear, and he felt the sticky residue of Gaffgarion's blood upon his hands. Was Gaffgarion really wrong? If he had simply swallowed his feelings and stood by his brothers, could he have avoided all of this?

 _And if I had, what would have become of the Princess?_

His grip tightened on the spear. The thought was hot and painful, a burning coal nestled in his mind. It reminded him of Delita—Delita, who might have lied to him and sent him headlong into danger, knowing there was no Princess to be saved.

But Ramza had saved Delita. He had saved Ovelia. And now that she had fallen into the hands of her enemies, he intended to save her again.

Ramza had killed Gaffgarion, just like he had killed Argus. But the difference was that this time, he had managed to slay him before he could harm Ovelia. This time, he was not too late. This time, it would not be like Teta.

He left the gatehouse behind with his spear in hand. Radia no longer looked at her father; now she was facing the squat, sold bulk of Lionel Castle with the crimson sword in hand. Without looking back at him, she started striding for the castle: the others followed her, all clutching at their own weapons, ready for the fight to come.

But there was no fight. The castle was empty.

They moved, swift and silent, through the carpeted halls, searching the runelit rooms for some sight of any enemy. They crept along corners, always checking for ambushes, but there were no soldiers in sight. Perhaps this could be explained—they had planted their bombs and attacked with spells just for this purpose, and most of the soldiers that remained could well have been stationed at the wall, where Ramza and his allies had already fought. But there were no signs of any staff, either—none of the important functionaries who must surely help to keep a castle running, much less a nation. No servants, no maids, no cooks, no chefs. No clerics, no chancellors, no diplomats, no clerks. Just the eerie silence of empty halls.

Ramza's skin blistered with winter chill. His throat felt very dry, and the hair on his head, his neck, his arms, his testicles, all seemed to crawl with tension. No matter where they went, the castle was empty. No sign of the armies of Lionel. No sign of its dignitaries. No sign of its people.

Until they reached the salon on the second story, where Cardinal Delacroix had first spoken to them of plots and Stones and sanctuaries. In that room, where the Cardinal had plied them with sweet food and sweeter words, they found him—Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, reclining in an armchair with a glass of wine in his hand.

"Stay where you are!" Agrias barked, as they hurried to surround him.

The Cardinal shrugged. "Why not? If I'd had any intention of leaving, I would have gone with my staff."

"Where are your men?" Radia asked, her voice coiled tight like a frightened serpent.

"Most of them are out in the city, looking for you," the Cardinal answered. "Those who could not fight, I dispatched on various errands. Your father seemed quite confident you would come, and I thought it best to simplify matters."

At the mention of her father, Ramza felt a pang in his heart, and he saw Radia wince—just the slightest wavering of the sword in her hand.

"You will tell us where the Princess is," hissed Agrias, her sword pointed at the Cardinal.

The Cardinal's eyes blinked in surprise. "Of course! That was always my intention!"

There was a moment of silence. Ramza felt his own confusion magnified around him.

"What are you talking about?" Agrias asked, her anger marred by doubt.

The Cardinal chuckled. "I have had a certain...revelation," the Cardinal answered pleasantly. pleasantly. "I confess, when I first heard that you had bested Gaffgarion's trap at the Gallows, I feared incompetence on his part. But now, well..." He smiled over his glass of wine. "You have escaped every trap and every prison we have arranged for you. Such deeds alone would speak to your talent, but instead of fleeing you capitalize on your success, run circles around my soldiers, and move to seize me!" He raised his glass to them. "Not incompetence at all, I wager. You are simply far more talented than we understood.

No one responded to the Cardinal. They had fanned out throughout the salon, eyes and weapons trained upon Delacroix, who himself seemed perfectly at ease.

"What has become of Gaffgarion, by the by?" the Cardinal asked. "Dead, I take it."

No one answered, though the hurt in Ramza's heart seemed heavier, and Radia winced again

"I apologize for our error," the Cardinal continued, as though he weren't being menaced by armed soldiers he had tried to kill. "I will rectify my mistake my bringing you to your Princess, so you may serve her once more."

Silence again, but this time there was a rather flabbergasted quality to it. Ramza looked around the room, and found his comrades doing the same, looking to one another for reassurance. Agrias, Alicia, and Lavian seemed the most baffled of all.

"What do you mean?" Agrias said at last, clutching her sword with white knuckles.

It was the Cardinal's turn to blink in confusion. "I thought I was clear," the Cardinal said. "You will be brought to your Princess' side, so that your tremendous talents will be aligned with her will. So you may help her become the Queen she is meant to be."

"You're joking," Alicia said.

The Cardinal frowned. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You have betrayed us," Mustadio whispered, the barrel of his gun fixed on the Cardinal, his hand steady. "Kidnapped our friends. Kidnapped my father. Ordered us killed when we'd outlived our usefulness. And now when we have you in our power, you try to bargain with us?"

The Cardinal chuckled. "You must admit, now would seem the best time to bargain. But you mistake me." He set his wineglass down. "I am not bargaining. Her Highness has accepted our aid, and will attain her rightful position as Queen of Ivalice. Your talents-"

"What?" Agrias breathed.

"-would be instrumental to our shared cause," the Cardinal continued patiently. "With our help, Queen Ovelia will challenge the usurper Louveria and all her rotting ilk, and when they are expunged from power, we shall build Ivalice anew, in the image of the Saint."

"And all will dance to the Church's tune," Radia grunted.

The Cardinal shook his head. "No one is being made a puppet. Her Highness realized that we offered her the best hope of restitution, and aligned herself accordingly."

"You're lying," Lavian said.

"I have no need to lie," the Cardinal replied. "Church and Crown, united in service of Ivalice and the Saint...there can be nothing better for our world."

"And now that you've failed to kill us, you want us to serve you?" Ramza said quietly.

The Cardinal shook his head and sighed. "I want you to serve _her_."

"But why now?" Ramza insisted.

The Cardinal shrugged. "I am not the only actor on this stage. But you will recall, when first we made our move, we only acted to remove her from your power. We meant you no harm: we simply feared that you could not serve her, and might well spell her doom. After all, one of her killers stood among your ranks, and none of you knew."

"A killer you hired to dispose of us!" Radia cried, though her voice was ragged with grief.

"Such is the nature of this rotten Ivalice," scowled the Cardinal. "We must make do with the tools we have, tainted as they are." His faced burned with anger for a moment, but then he took a deep breath and seemed calm once more. "We originally considered all of you mere inconveniences. When you continued to interfere, we had to find a way to stop you." He shrugged again. "But now you have demonstrated your abilities. You have bested every foe set against you. You could further our cause. You could help to build a brighter world."

"We'll never help you," growled Alicia.

The Cardinal titled his head in bemusement. "No? You have come to save a Princess who is in no need of saving, and I offer you a chance to take your rightful place at her side. Is that not what you set out to do?"

"You offer us a chance to help you keep using her!" Lavian exclaimed.

"No one is being used," the Cardinal said, as though he were correcting an irresponsible rumor.

"No?" Agrias asked. "So why was our Princess kidnapped? Why were we lured into your castle under the pretense of safety? Why were they almost killed-" she gestured towards Ramza and Mustadio. "-and they almost executed?" She gestured to Alicia and Lavian. "Why, if not to silence us, so you may have the puppet you desire?"

The Cardinal smiled, though the smile did not reach his eyes. "You sound much like Ovelia did, before she understood."

"That is because Her Highness is no fool," Agrias hissed. "And whatever honeyed words you choose to spew, you cannot mask your monstrous deeds."

"Captain Agrias-" the Cardinal began.

"NO!" Agrias bellowed. "No, I think we have heard enough from you. We have played this game before, Cardinal—in this very room. You plied us with honeyed words, so we would not know them for the poison that they were. And then when we had been lulled by your song, you moved to slit our throats." She took a step towards him, lifting her sword so it was level with his throat. "You will tell us where she is, or you will die. That is our offer."

The Cardinal regarded her for a time. His smile was gone, his face set. There was something odd there, something dark and strange that made Ramza hesitate and his grip weaken upon his spear.

"I see," the Cardinal said at length. "So. You turn against the Church, and you turn against God."

"We turn against you!" Radia exclaimed.

"Yes, of course," rumbled the Cardinal, and he seemed larger than he had a moment before, as though he were imposing himself upon reality, a shadow of power spreading out around them. "Selfish causes and selfish reasons for selfish people who refuse to see the larger picture, even when it is clearly laid out before you. You lack even the proper courage for heresy. You are simply _cowards_."

"Cowards or not," Agrias said, taking another step towards the Cardinal. "We have you surrounded."

The Cardinal smiled, and this was a genuine smile, this was a smile that reached his eyes and made them glow like hot coals, and that smile seemed far too big for his face, and his face seemed bigger too. It seemed as though the Cardinal was expanding, stretching, changing, and that darkness seemed far more concrete, and the runes on the walls were dimming before the vast shadow that stretched beyond him.

"You may have me surrounded," the Cardinal said, and it was the Cardinal's voice, yes, but there was more to it than that, layers to it, reverberations of sound that Ramza could hear not only in his ears but also in his mind, shaking in his heart, quivered in his bowels, and he saw the others in the room falling back before that awful voice. "But I have you trapped."

He reached inside his robes and pulled out the Scorpio Stone, which throbbed with a merciless bloody light like a miniature sun. And then that crimson orb exploded into violent glory, its light coalescing and congealing around the shape of the Cardinal, driving them all back with force and fury and fear, joining with the shadow, joining with the Cardinal.

The light never faded: instead, shadow and radiance solidified into a bloated, gargantuan shape, a putrid mass of miscolored grey-green flesh. A proportionally too-small head grinned cheerily from atop the corpulent mass, its pupilless eyes flickering to each one of them, its grin widening hungrily at the sight of their fear. It was not the only thing grinning—little mouths spoke and laughed and chuckled and smirked ll along its body, down its thick arms and its fat legs. Its irregular torso held the largest mouth of all, a great maw with black tombstone teeth. It was nearly twice as tall as the Cardinal had been, and wider and thicker still.

"You have chosen your sins," said the creature's many mouths, in voices that echoed the Cardinal's. "Now Cuchulainn will punish you for them."


	59. Chapter 58: Pain and Punishment

(Thanks for reading, everyone! If you're hungry for content, there's always more to read at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 58: Pain and Punishment**

Nothing mattered. Not anymore.

Alphonse stumbled up the steps, his head fogged with wine, his eyes glazed with tears. Each step seemed to take too long, as the moments slid along with his awareness into the vast empty gulf that had opened inside him since word had first come of the raid upon his caravan. Of what had happened to his wife. Of what had happened to his son.

The thought brought pain, but only for a moment. Just a little flare of the old grief, and then it was gone again, drained down into the emptiness along with everything else inside him. Only anger ever stayed for long, and then only when he watched the work in the dungeons, or took a hand in it himself.

The Gryphon Knights were not the mighty war machines of the Hokuten and the Nanten—the temporal powers of Ivalice only begrudgingly accepted Lionel as an extension of the Church, and that after frustrating negotiations that might be abolished at a moment's notice. But though their power was comparably limited, they were still stronger than any force within their borders. The assassins might have fled the scene of their crime, but the the Gryphons found them swiftly, and dragged them to Lionel Castle to meet their punishment.

Emptiness and pain had coexisted in the Cardinal in equal measure. He set out to inflict that pain upon those who had so hurt him. First with the casual cruelty of regular men, but that was too good for the likes of them, and watching the swinging of fists and the kicking of booted feet seemed so hollow, even as the assassins wept. So the Cardinal found other men and women—men and women whose life's work was the dungeons, and all the tools that came with them. He had Baerd send some of his best men. He searched the gaols of Lionel for the worst criminals, and brought them here with promises of clemency, so long as they would turn their appetites upon the Cardinal's enemies.

And every time, he would come down into the dark, and watch, and listen. Only in those moments, when they screamed and wept and begged, when screws turned and ropes pulled and hot coals sizzled against skin, when blades carved and needled pierced and hot iron sang, did Alphonse ever feel like the world would be right again.

But it was not enough. These assassins were merely the worst of the rot that was killing Lionel, just like they had killed his wife and son. He sent the Gryphons far and wide in search of other men and women in need of punishment. Soon the dungeons of Lionel were full to bursting, and every night the Cardinal would descend to listen to their punishments.

There were objections—soldiers who would not carry out their duties, healers who would not treat his prisoners so that they could stand their next punishment, long-time servants and advisors who struggled to pull the Cardinal off his path. Fools, the lot of them; they did not see clearly enough. He arranged for them to be sent away, to toil in the archives of Mullonde or to patrol the hinterlands of Lionel. Soon, no one objected. Soon, he was left to correct the sins of Lionel, the only way he could.

But even the screams began to feel hollow. All the punishment did not resurrect the dead. And Lionel—no, all Ivalice—felt yet more rotten with every passing day.

The Cardinal sat at his desk with a nearly-empty bottle of wine, tired but unable to sleep. The waves of drunkenness echoed inside him, down into the void. He grabbed clumsily for the bottle, and knocked it over, so the maroon liquid poured across the desk and down into his carpet. He watched it drip away.

What a waste. Just like Lionel. Just like Ivalice. Just like everything.

There was a knock upon his door. Without looking up, the Cardinal mumbled, "Go away."

Silence for a moment. Then the knocking came again, louder. Anger, hot and bright, streaked like a comet through the emptiness. "GO AWAY!" bellowed the Cardinal, with authority enough to silence a whole battalion of men.

A moment's silence...then another knock, louder than the last, and the comet of rage burst into hot flames, and the Cardinal moved with such terrible speed, amplified by his drunkenness so he almost punched a hole straight through the door. But no, that was too much a warning, and this intruder might run if he had a chance to glimpse the fate that awaited him. Whoever continued to knock in spite of his orders would soon find what it was to be punished. He would show them what happened to those who defied him.

He flung the door open, and his curses died upon his lips. Vormav Tengille stood on the other side, his muscular arms folded across his broad chest, his head cocked to one side.

The Knight-Commander of the Templar. Had Marcel sent him? And if so, why? Did he intend to try and stop Alphonse?

But when Vormav spoke, his voice was calm almost to the point of disinterest. "Good evening, your Grace."

"What are you doing here?" Alphonse demanded.

Vormav's thick eyebrows arched. "The Saint's Work." His eyes flickered past the Cardinal to the spilled wine on his desk. "Are you?"

Alphonse glowered at him. "In my own way."

"I'm sure," Vormav replied. He stepped past Alphonse, not bothering to ask his permission (another comet of anger soared through the darkness, warming Alphonse a little).

"Marcel sent you?" Alphonse said, giving voice to some of his anger.

Vormav circled the room once, looking for all the world like a curious cat examining a new home. When he answered Alphonse, he did not look at him. "The High Priest has given me a task, yes. I had hoped to involve you in its completion."

And now Marcel meddled in his affairs. Another warm comet of anger rose up in the darkness, and Alphonse clenched his hands into fists. See where their meddling led—to loved ones dead. "What do you want?" growled Alphonse, his throat thick with rage and grief.

Vormav looked at the Cardinal, and now there was anger in his eyes. "What do I want?" he asked. "I want a man of reason and intelligence. I Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, not this sniveling wretch."

The fire this time was not a comet but a volcanic burst, cleaving through the fog of drunken sorrow: Alphonse took a step towards Vormav. "Watch your tongue," he spat. "You may be Knight-Commander, but-"

"But what?" Vormav snorted. "Will you lock me in your dungeon and make me apologize?" Vormav's arms were folded across his chest, but somehow his stance drew attention to the sword on his hip. "You're welcome to try."

"You dare threaten me!" bellowed Alphonse, taking another step towards Vormav, raising his hands as though he might strangle the other man by will alone.

Vormav's eyebrows arched. "Only one of us has made any threats, your Grace."

Some dim, distant part of Alphonse's mind recognized that was true—that Vormav, though frustratingly familiar, had for the most part been perfectly civil. But that whisper of truth was drowned out by a fresh flare of rage. He took another step towards Vormav, so close now he could almost have reached out and...

And what?

Before he could answer the question, Vormav had raised a forestalling had. "I did not come here to quarrel with you, your Grace," he said. "And I admit I spoke poorly. To serve our Saint properly, I require the Cardinal Delacroix whose name is synonymous with fairness and trust across Ivalice. And if I may be frank, your Grace, you do not seem like that man."

A laugh surprised Alphonse, bubbling from his lips like bile. "You think you wound me with such words?" Alphonse asked. "That man lived for God, and God repaid him by-"

The laughter died, choked off by a fresh wave of grief. Alphonse dribbled down into the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands and drew ragged, sobbing breaths to try and keep from weeping. He did not want to feel this. He didn't want to feel anything.

"What use in serving God," he muttered. "If this is your reward?"

Silence across all Lionel—silence in the salon, through the castle halls, and inside Alphonse himself. He stared into the darkness formed by his cupped hands, hoping it would swallow him.

"This was not the work of God."

Alphonse looked up. Vormav was staring at him, his craggy face neutral but his flint eyes glowing with conviction. In spite of himself, Alphonse was captivated.

"Not the work of God," Vormav repeated, after a moment's silence. "But men. Men acting as men do, without a proper hand to guide them—to hold them back from folly, and punish them for their sins and protect the righteous among them. Men without the light of the Saint."

Alphonse managed to laugh again, though the sound was weak even to his ears. "What of it?" he asked. "I have spent my life trying to spread His light, and still...still, I..."

Vormav nodded. "I know your pain."

A brief flicker of rage. Alphonse opened his mouth to snap at Vormav, to scream that he could not be understood...and then faltered. Something had happened to Vormav's wife, hadn't it? Yes, he remembered now. She had been killed while pregnant during the War.

Perhaps Vormav could understand. If anyone could.

"I remember what it was like," Vormav said, as Alphonse bit his tongue. "I remember..." He trailed off and shook his head. "I questioned everything. I almost left the Templars."

Alphonse started in surprise. "You?"

Vormav nodded. "But the Saint provides. As he always does. As I hope I can now."

He reached inside his robes, and after a moment drew out a dark maroon stone, round and gleaming. No, not just gleaming: _glowing_ , gentle and potent as a star in the sky. Alphonse's eyes were transfixed by that Stone, and then he felt pure elation rocket through him when he saw the insignia shining upon its surface.

"Is that..." he began. "Can that possibly be..."

"A Zodiac Stone," Vormav said. He set the maroon stone down upon the wooden table, where its glow faded. "We have six in our possession."

"Six...six..." Alphonse repeated the word over to himself like a litany. Six Stones, six of the twelve. He knew that at least one was kept among the High Priest's personal collection, but that was the only one he knew of. Six? Half of the greatest miracles God had ever given to the world?

"Such is the aim of our High Priest," Vormav said. "We shall find all twelve, and form the Braves anew, and soothe the troubled soul of Ivalice. But if we are to reform the Braves, we will need men and women worthy of miracles. Men like the Cardinal of Lionel."

The Cardinal stared at the light of the Stone, but on hearing Vormav's last words felt the void inside him darkening and intensifying. The Cardinal had lived in the illusion that God cared for him, that he would protect the righteous and punish the wicked. Even if Vormav was right—even if what had happened was not the work of God, but of men—what hope was there for Braves in a world where God did not protect his faithful?

"I will leave the Stone in your care, your Grace," Vormav said. "And with your permission, with spend the night here. Perhaps by morning you will have found reason to listen to me."

Vormav moved past him, pausing only to squeeze one shoulder before stepping into the hall. Alphonse did not move or speak. He felt helpless to do either, tempted by the Stone that lay upon the table, promising him all he had dreamed. He had loved the story of the Braves since he was a child in the busy household of a Lionel priest: in the busy household, often lost among his numerous brothers and sisters, he would entertained himself with fantasies that he had found a Stone, and earned his place among the Braves. His earliest memories were of listening to his father preach, his mother sing, both voices soaring high into the vaulted reaches of their Church. In that sound he had heard the touch of the divine—of power from within that could fill the world, and something in him had equated those childhood fantasies with that sound, that power—the power of the Church, in all its rituals.

So he had devoted himself, body and soul, to the Church. So he had become one of its warriors, priests, and generals. And now one of its greatest relics lay before him, as though God had ordained it to be so.

But what did that matter? For if his devotion had led him to the Stone, it had also led him away from the side of his wife and son, so he could not keep them safe. So he could not even die at their side. Now he remained, lingering on in this meaningless, Godless world.

The emptiness reared up inside him once more, a silent wave threatening to swallow him. And for the first time in days, Alphonse feared that emptiness. Filled with memories of the child he had been—memories of his own nascent family, of warm touches in the darkness and his son's bright laugh—he feared that he would never feel again, if he allowed that void to fill him once more.

Without thinking, he reached out, and touched the surface of the Stone.

 _Poor child._

A whisper in his mind, as though in an imagined conversation, but louder somehow. It felt three-dimensional, as though the speaker was just out of view—or rather, as though the speaker were somehow inside him.

 _No, child. Nothing so sinister._

This voice came from the same place, but was not the same voice. It was lighter somehow, softer—younger or more womanly or both, Alphonse could not say.

 _Childish distinctions. Whatever our voice, we speak with the same will._

We?

 _We. The miracle of which the legends speak._

Miracles? Alphonse's eyes widened, and he looked down at the glowing Stone, warm to the touch against his fingertips. He pulled his hands away, not in fear but in experimentation. The glowing dimmed, and when another voice spoke—this one older, creaking with age—it was quieter, as though the speaker called to him from another room.

 _Yes, child. The Stone._

Alphonse's mouth felt very dry. No sooner did he touch the Stone then a miracle presented itself, the legends manifesting before his eyes. He tried to speak, and felt the words caught in the desert of his throat. He swallowed, then tried again. "I...I am not a child."

Laughter from many throats. _Not a child to men, no. But to us._

"Who are you?" Alphonse asked.

 _We are the power of the Stone._

"That's not an answer."

 _You stared at us, searching for a miracle. You touch a stone, and hear a legion of voices that answers your thoughts. What more is required?_

"A name."

 _As many names as the Stone has had wielders. But do you what name we would like to have?_

The answer sprang unbidden into Alphonse's mind. Whispers of approval surrounded him.

 _Yes. That name._

"Why?"

Silence for a moment—silence as profound and terrible as that which had hung between Alphonse and Vormav, but more intimate somehow. Alphonse could feel the void where the voices had been, deeper and darker even than the empty gulf that had drowned his days. He trembled with sudden fear, reached out and touched his fingers to the Stone once more.

"Please," he said, a tremor in his voice.

Another moment's absence, as Alphonse's stomach plummeted with dread...then the voices returned, softer than before and yet deeper, as though the speaker whispered into some inner ear he'd never known he had.

 _Poor child. Betrayed by those you sought to protect. We know this pain._

 _We know such pain_ , added a different voice, thin and regal. _So much pain._

 _For such did we wield the Stone,_ murmured a haughty man's voice. _To make sure those who harmed us would never hurt again._

 _And to visit upon them the pain they would bring into the world._

 _Do unto others!_ laughed a bright child's voice.

 _We shall reward the righteous._

 _And we shall punish the sinners._

More and more voices, and the glow of the Scorpio Stone was brighter still, bright enough that it should have hurt Alphonse's eyes. But he found it easy to look at, the light leaking through his eyes until it seemed to glow somewhere inside him, brightening the void within. The babbling voices soothed him, like a gentle hand stroking the back of his neck, a hand he would never feel again because a Godless madman had killed her, killed their son, and taken hope out of his world.

Alphonse's fingers tightened around the Stone, as tears burned in his eyes. The voices spoke more quickly, almost frantic with reflected grief.

 _Poor child! How the world has wronged you._

 _We can do better._

 _We can make it better._

"Yes," Alphonse.

Silence, as all the voices stopped speaking at once. But he could feel them around him, within him. The Stone felt so powerful in his hand.

 _You accept our aid?_

"Please," Alphonse whispered.

This time, the voices all spoke as one, a mighty host with power crackling beneath their every word. _We wish to aid you, child! But this path is not for the faint of our heart! Once the oath is sworn, you cannot recant!_

The Stone pulsed steadily in the Cardinal's hand. He clutched at it as he had clutched at his wife's hand, staring into her bloody face, as though it was an illusion that would melt away, a prank in bad taste. Looking for any sign of life in her lifeless eyes

"Reward the righteous," he said. "Punish the wicked."

And the Stone burst into light, burning with power and energy that filled the salon. That wild, ecstatic light poured inside him and through him; the voices bubbled and babbled, surrounding his thoughts. He supposed he should have felt afraid—could not these voices smother him, drown him?—but there was no fear. Like his comets of anger, they warmed him, but unlike his anger the warmth didn't fade. It seemed to mount steadily, filling not only the vast gulf inside him but every inch of his body and mind, a heat like sunlight, like orgasm, like alcohol, but brighter somehow, clearer, more powerful than any healing magic, than any spell he'd ever cast. Each of those voices came with its own warmth, its own brightness, its own power. If it had been him alone, he would surely have burnt to ashes, or burst with that strength. But he was not alone. He would never be alone again.

Alphonse receded into that mass, into that power, becoming only one part of a greater whole. But somehow he was not diminished by it: it was rather like the feeling of marching in an army—that feeling of solidity, of power, of being part of something greater than yourself. Unlike an army—unlike even the armies Alphonse had led in his time, fighting on the frontlines, swinging his sword for the glory of God and country—Alphonse was both commander and soldier. He was a member of the host, and he oversaw the host. And those voices consolidated and coalesced together into a more substantial whole—a whole that was shaped like the man who had reached out to the Stone, a whole of which Alphonse was a part, but infinitely stronger than he had ever been, a whole of many parts and many wills and many powers. A whole that could do all the Cardinal had ever dreamed, and more.

He rose from his desk, the Scorpio Stone clutched between his strong fingers, his mind ablaze with possibilities, his body radiant and resplendent with light and shadow in equal parts.

"Ah," came the satisfied voice of Vormav Tengille. "I knew I was right to trust you."

The Cardinal—the sublime, infinite, powerful Cardinal—looked up from his desk with eyes that saw the world more clearly than any human eyes could see, that saw it painted in colors of power and potential, implicit promises of all he could do if he only willed. But when those new eyes saw Vormav Tengille standing in the doorway, they saw light and strength like a burning sun. The Cardinal blinked his clumsy human eyes as involuntary tears filled them.

"Not Vormav," murmured the Cardinal. "Which of us are you?"

Vormav smiled a little. "You're newly awoken, friend," he replied. "I doubt you even know yourself."

"I..." the Cardinal trailed off. Curious! So many voices, so much knowledge, so much strength...too much, in fact. He felt like a clever scholar searching through an unfamiliar library, reading quickly and moving confidently from one area to another, but aware of shelves and shelves of knowledge not yet read. Strange, indeed! He knew he was the Cardinal, but that was not his first name, nor his true name.

"Quite right," he murmured. "Quite right. So long since I last..."

How long? Something there, something difficult to process or untangle, lost in the mists, in visions of fire and fury and power and pain that sent a little tremor of fear through all the myriad voices inside him.

"It's alright, friend," Vormav said. "I will gladly remind you of your name, and our place. There is time enough yet to punish the sinners, and restore order beneath the wings of our Bloody Angel."

Ah, and wasn't that a warm thought! The vision that filled his head then, of the power and radiance besides which the Cardinal and Vormav pale embers in the dark, stretched all across his mind. He smiled and nodded. "Yes...yes..."

Vormav's smile widened. "But first, I believe you've some business to attend to."

 _That_ thought was no less bright than the memory of the Bloody Angel. His many voices chuckled in rabid glee. "Quite right," he answered. "Quite right."

Stone steps flew by beneath his feet: the halls of Lionel Castle, empty in this late hour, seemed to blur past him (God the power in him, inexhaustible, as though he walked through a sunlit world with a strong breeze at his back, as though he could run forever and never tire). He hurried down into the musty dungeons that reeked yet of blood and shit. Moans and sobs drifted out like mist from the many doors. Guards and interrogators and torturers stood mystified as the Cardinal ushered them out, gently or firmly or fiercely as their resistance warranted.

When the dungeons were empty of all but prisoners, he opened the farthest, heaviest cell door, which opened on a wide and spacious room. The man in chains whimpered, pulling as far back as his chains would allow against the wall, his one remaining eye wet with tears; the dour-faced Healer looked up, his red-and-white should patches dusty with his day's work, his face sallow.

"He's not ready yet, your Grace," said the Healer, in a bored tone.

"That is alright, Tenes," the Cardinal answered. "Your services will no longer be required for this prisoner."

The prisoner's whimpers rose to a frantic pitch. Tenes looked between the Cardinal and the prisoner, shrugged, and rose to his feet, dusting himself off as he went. He left the door cracked behind him, and the Cardinal waited patiently with hands clasped behind his back.

"Pleath," mumbled the man, the words stumbling off the half-tongue that had been left to him, tripping across broken stumps of teeth. "Pleath, no more. I'm thorry. I'm thorry."

The Cardinal smiled, and felt his power burning in that smile. He felt such strength, such brightness, such fury. But where the anger of the man he'd been had had a sour note, a note of impotence and terror and grief and fear, there was no such detritus on this new, bright rage. Anger fogged the minds of men: in the minds of the Cardinal—in the minds of the bright, beautiful creature that ignorant men had so long castigated as a demon—he felt only clarity of purpose. He was angry, yes. And he knew how best to use this anger.

"No," the Cardinal said. "You are not sorry. Not yet."

He allowed his new power to burn, his new voices to speak. He felt his body changing, reflecting the myriad strength . He saw the terror in the eyes of the prisoner, and relished it.

The righteous would be protected from the sinners. The wicked would be punished for their sins. If God would not guarantee it, the Cardinal would, with every power at his disposal. And there was more power at his disposal now than most men ever dreamed.

The assassin started to scream. It would be hours yet before he stopped.


	60. Chapter 59: Cuchulainn

(Thanks for reading, everyone! Just two more chapters to go before we wrap Part Two! If you've liked what you've read so far, give my other stuff a gander at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 59: Cuchulainn**

 _Cuchulainn the Impure is listed as one of the known Lucavi (Lucavi whose names have been found in enough records to confirm their basic existence, if not their precise nature), with extensive magical powers that manifest mainly in the form of potent poisons. Earliest records, however, point to some manner of Mage King in pre-Ydoran Zelmonia, known as Cuculainn the Purifier for his work establishing irrigation canals and potable water sources for his people. His life and death are unknown, though scattered tomb carvings make note of him being poisoned by an heir..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "In Search of Myth"_

It was too real.

That was the problem, from the outset. The thing the Cardinal had become—this many-mouthed monster that named itself Cuchulainn—was so terribly solid, a ghastly mimicry of humanity, too large and too potent and too _present_. It assaulted their senses with its weighty reality. It struck them dumb with the force of its undeniable existence.

There were monsters in the world, of course—even before Ramza had joined Gaffgarion, he had seen such things, panthers streaking across the Mandalia Plains, goblins screeching and scampering back from soldiers' torchlight, brooding purple-skinned behemoths in royal menageries. With Gaffgarion, he had seen still-stranger sights—malicious birds with each wing as a big as he was flocking the sky, herds of minotaurs pounding their way across rocky hills, and once in the thick of a swamp several skull-faced creatures clutching stolen weapons in their clumsy hands.

But in some sense, those had been more understandable. They were beastly enough to be mistaken for ordinary animals, their ghastly forms just inhuman enough to not unsettle the mind. Not so Cuchulainn—not so this abomination of human outline and inhuman substance, the thick grey-green flesh marred by gnawing, laughing, grimacing mouths. This thing that had once been Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, and which still spoke in a voice that echoed him. Its pupiless eyes regarded them merrily from its grinning head, and Ramza and his allies were frozen before it, struck dumb.

So even after it spoke, they were still. Even as its largest mouth—that great, gaping maw that stretched across its gargantuan belly—began to glow with sickly green light, they did not stir. And when at last someone gasped (Ramza wasn't sure who; it might even have been him), it was too late. The blast hammered out, caught Agrias full upon the chest with a sound like the whistling of the wind mixed with the ringing of metal against metal, and smashed her off her feet. She flew backwards and crashed into Alicia; they tumbled to the floor.

"No!" Lavian cried, dashing towards Agrias and Alicia, and like that the spell was broken, because whatever horror they faced it was dangerous and every one of them was used to facing foes who wanted to kill them. Mustadio snapped up his gun and fired: a little splash of black goo drizzled out from the grey flesh on Cuchulainn's chest, and the monster's many mouths laughed.

Ramza, already charging the beast with spear in hand, had time enough to think, _Oh_ , _that's not good_ before he was within reach of the monster, which smashed out with one thick arm. Ramza twisted aside, and the arm missed him and instead cracked a settee in two pieces. He thrust with all his strength, reached out intuitively to sap away some portion of the monster's field-

Nearly collapsed.

By the Saint, the _power_ of it! It was like reaching out to the handle of a pan, only to find it was too hot when it burned your hand, or perhaps more like reaching out to pick up a small object, only to find it much heavier than you expected. He had not expected the sheer, shocking weight of it. This creature was more than human: touching on its ambient magic walloped him, winded him at the level of his soul. He staggered backwards, half-blind, half-heartedly thrusting his spear. Cuchulainn reached out with one great hand, a sharp-toothed mouth grinning on his palm.

The percussive _bang_ of Mustadio's gun was followed by one of Cuchulainn's fingers bursting off in a flecking spatter of hissing black good. It burned against Ramza's face, and he fell back shouting at the pain, the spear falling from his panicked finger as he desperate rubbed at the painful spots upon his face with the leather and cloth on his forearms.

"Ramza!" Radia cried, and something hard exploded into the side of his ribs. Ramza fell with a gasp of fresh pain, but this pain was familiar. It felt like a shoulder catching him along the side. A human hurt, and somehow that hurt stabilized him, calmed him a little, and he rolled away without thinking—just in time, if the sudden impact and shaking of the ground was any sign. He staggered to his feet, blinking the tears from his burning eyes, his lungs aching with strain.

The floor where Ramza had fallen was cratered and cracked where Cuchulainn had hammered one of its tree-trunk legs into the ground. A long, shallow wound had been torn across its chest, oozing black goo: Radia was weaving backwards from Cuchulainn's grasping hand. A bony finger had sprouted anew from the stump left by Mustadio's bullet. And there was something else, an odd tint in the air that was somehow heavier than light...

It took a moment for Ramza to understand—to see the little puffs of green gas chuckling from the monster's many mouths. To understand that the tightness in his chest was more than exhaustion, and the burning in his eyes more than pain.

"Get back!" Ramza shouted, and found his voice strained by the poison slowly filling the air. Radia ducked under the grasping hand, and Ramza saw with horror that the grinning, sharp-toothed mouth exhaled a fresh gust of gas, right into Radia's face. Her eyes widened, her face paled, and her mouth worked like a fish. She fell to her knees, still within Cuchulainn's reach.

"NO!" Ramza cried, lunging forwards in spite of the tightness in his throat, the pressure in his chest. He ran forwards, trying not to breathe, squinting his eyes as he snapped up his fallen spear. Radia slashed wildly, crawling backwards as Cuchulainn advanced steadily upon her, ignoring the wounds that Mustadio sank into his body. Ramza lunged again, drove his spear into the demon's chest: the spear pierced through the flesh easily enough, and then spear shuddered in his hand as though he had tried to thrust it through a thick stone wall. It wedged into Cuchulainn's chest, and would not budge.

The demon's many mouths were still laughing, still breathing heavy gas, and Cuchulainn twisted to one side, tearing the spear from Ramza's scraped and grasping hands. As it reached for him again, Ramza turned back, bent low, scooped up Radia even as his arms ached, and dashed towards the back of the room. He looked over his shoulder, and saw the green glow in the creature's stomach-mouth.

"No you don't!" Mustadio bellowed, and reached into the satchel he carried and pulled out one of the makeshift gunpowder bombs he'd used to such effect in Lionel city. With a simple flick, he set the fuse ablaze, and tossed the tightly-wrapped cylinder at Cuchulainn. Ramza threw himself down behind a chair as Cuchulainn's green light caught the bomb. The ensuing explosion rattled Ramza's bones, and sent ringing through his ears: he clung tight to Radia, gasping in spite of himself, eyes burning, throat tight with the effort it took to breathe.

"No escape, sinners!" howled the many voices of Cuchulainn. "Fight all you like! Your fate is sealed!"

Radia was pale in Ramza's lap, her breaths whistling in and out of bloodless lips. Without thinking, Ramza drew one of the daggers from his waist and slashed across his palm, sketching the old runes on her skin—runes to ease her breathing, and boost her immune system against foreign toxins. He forced power into each bloody rune, which glowed faintly. And as he worked, his skin crawled with the fear that one of those green blasts would smash the life from him while he cowered.

"A demon!" Mustadio spat from somewhere on Ramza's left. Ramza's head jerked towards him: he could just make out his friend's legs. "I should have known."

"Demon!" laughed Cuchulainn, and the voice sighed and giggled and snickered from other mouths across its body, repeating the phrase— _demon, demon, demon_. "It is not I who puts a torch to the Church's offices, and comes with threats of violence to its Cardinal."

"Look at yourself!" cried Mustadio.

"What matter the form, if the spirit is pure?" answered Cuchulainn.

Mustadio traded words with a monster. No, not a monster: a Lucavi. A demon of myth and legend, a thing out of stories, and it was in front of them, it might kill them, and-

Ramza shook his head against the cold, too-real weight, set Radia down gently and rose again. Perhaps ten seconds had passed since the explosion: furniture lay broken and burning in a wide radius around the corpulent monster. The stone floor was cratered with the impacts of its terrible legs and hands. The green toxin seemed much less thick than before—perhaps Mustadio's explosion had destroyed it somehow—but the many mouths still breathed and chuckled, so a small and deathly cloud was forming around it yet again. The spear Ramza had left in its chest jiggled merrily with every step. Below the spear, a green glow had begun to leak from between the stomach-mouth's tombstone teeth.

"You consort with criminals," Mustadio retorted, a fresh bomb in one hand, a gun trained on Cuchulainn in the other. "You kidnap my father. You oppress my city. There's nothing pure about you."

As Mustadio spoke Ramza curled the fingers of his left hand so they dipped into his bloody palm. With his bloody-fingers, he started to sketch a rune of fire on his uninjured hand.

A curious expression crossed the roughshod face atop Cuchulainn's body. It was an expression almost of regret. "Necessity has compelled me to unfortunate action," he said, in a musing voice that was echoed by his other mouths. "But I will yet-"

"TRAITOR!" Agrias screamed, and burst out from behind the Cardinal's miraculously-intact desk, just behind Cuchulainn. Ramza blinked in confusion—how had she managed to recover so quickly, much less circle around to the far side of the room without being seen?—and his surprise seemed to shared by Cuchulainn, who took a startled step backwards—a comically human action from such an inhuman form. A flare of emerald energy burst out of the monster's stomach; Agrias continued charging unafraid, slashing her glowing sword. There was a burst of force, shimmering white clashing against flaring green...and below that roar of sound, a lower, crackling rumble.

With a _crack_ so deep it seemed to tremble in Ramza's blood, the floor between Agrias and Cuchulainn gave way. Agrias managed to stagger back from the crumbling stonework; Cuchulainn was not so fleet of foot. With a bellow of rage that was uttered in several discordant voices, the monster plummeted down through the floor, and landed with a resounding _thud_ beneath them. The ground shook a little more beneath Ramza's feet.

Silence in the room. Agrias was panting with her sword in hand, her face and body mottled with little burns and wounds. On the other side of the room, Lavian was helping a bruised and wincing Alicia to her feet. Radia's head poked up from behind the chair where he'd left her.

"Can you see it?" Ramza whispered, afraid to move for fear that the floor would fall away beneath his feet.

Agrias shook her head. "Not from here. Maybe-"

A beam of shattering green exploded through the floor just behind Agrias, cleaving straight through the Cardinal's desk and smashing a hole into the far wall, exposing the cool night beyond. Agrias yelled and darted to one side, eyes flickering between the hole in the floor she'd made and the one the demon had just breathed into the world.

"Damn!" Mustadio shouted, dashing forward and igniting the fuse on the bomb in his hand. He hurled it down into the largest hole, then threw himself backwards. With a terrific _boom_ , fire and smoke curled up through the hole, tearing away more of the stonework beneath them, widening that initial hole. The floor felt as though it were slanting, slipping away like ice.

But even before the smoke had cleared, the voices were babbling again, laughing, and a fresh beam of green force tore through the floor on the far side of the room, perilously close to Radia. The floor creaked a little more.

Alicia staggered from Lavian's side, scepter in hand, and jabbed it down towards the largest hole in the floor—the one through which Cuchulainn had fallen. Fire poured out of her scepter, a steady stream of flames cascading down into the room below, and though Alicia was pale and strained she stayed upright, raining fire down on the beast below. Until she flung herself back with a cry, as a green beam of force cleaved through her flames and struck the ceiling above, raining chunks of debris down upon the salon. A large hunk of masonry hit Ramza's shoulder, sending stunning waves of pain down his arm.

More beams of green force, more creaking from the floor below them, and Radia was back on her feet, unsteady but standing. "We need to get out!" she shouted. "This room's going to-"

Another beam, just by the door. With a final, splintering roar the floor beneath them gave way: Ramza fought to keep his feet, realized the pointlessness of it, and instead dashed towards the hole in the middle of the room. He flung himself through, twisted through the air so he would hit the ground at a roll. Too fast; he slammed hard into a wall, and agony lightninged through his back as his head swam with stars.

Though he was dizzy, spinning with pain and momentum, Ramza struggled to his feet. He couldn't quite manage it; he sank to the ground, sitting up with his back braced again the wall he'd hit, struggling to make sense of the vertigo world into which he'd fallen. Broken stone and flickering flames painted a confusing picture, so it took him a moment to figure out what he was seeing.

They were in some manner of chapel, though the pews burned, and among the broken stone Ramza dizzily spied his friends. Mustadio was on his feet, though limping heavily: Alicia was pulling Lavian to her feet, both dusty and apparently unharmed: Radia was slumped behind a pew, with Agrias' unconscious head in her chest.

At the farthest end of the room was a stained glass window that stretched all the way up to the apex of the high-ceilinged chapel, depicting the blonde, beatific Saint Ajora, his hands upraised as he preached to his disciples from atop a hill. The sun was radiant above him, with a scarlet Virgo symbol gleaming in its depths. And beneath this chapel window, its back to the purple-clothed altar from which a priest would pronounce his sermons and offer his sacraments, was the monstrous form of Cuchulainn, its many mouths still sighing green gas, the black burns on its skin slowly popping back to their heavy grey. Green light was still glowing in the depths of its stomach-mouth.

It fired that green light, straight at Alicia and Lavian.

"NO!" Alicia screamed, and raised her scepter once more. Runes flashed in rapid succession like shooting stars passing through a night sky, and a moment later a beam of bright white burst from her scepter's tip, and crashed into the green beam. They caught each other, burned against each other, a searing power that curled the hairs on Ramza's arms. The stone where the two blasts had met was glowing red with the heat of it, threatening to melt entirely.

But Alicia's beam, potent at first, began to flicker and fail. She fell to one knee, screaming still, and more runes flickered and flew from the tip of the scepter, but with every moment her white force dimmed and the green remained feverishly bright.

As her own beam failed, Alicia tried to twist aside. She was a hair too slow: Cuchulainn's green beam caught her in the arm, and sent her spinning through the air. She flew one way, her scepter another, and she careened into a pew, which splintered beneath her weight.

It was hard to see Cuchulainn's details now—even with the many holes the monster had carved into the ceiling, it had created a thick and noxious cloud around it. But even through the cloud, Ramza could see the threatening green glow of another nascent attack.

It speared through the air, straight towards Alicia, and splashed against a flickering field of shimmering force. Lavian, hunched over, her hands out-thrust, glared at the demon trying to kill Alicia. "You will not hurt her again!" she shrieked, and with one great effort turned the beam aside, so it smashed through the wall to her right.

"I will punish her!" howled one of Cuchulainn's voices. "As I will punish you!" The green glow through the cloud again, getting thicker, larger, closer. And Lavian stood panting at Alicia's side, swaying unsteadily as though she might collapse at any moment.

Another beam hurtled out of the cloud. Lavian raised her hands again, and then a red-headed figure fell between Lavian and Cuchulainn, red-bladed sword in hand. The green energy seemed to flow into Radia, and with every moment she stood a little straighter, a little more confidently, but there was something wide and terrified in her face now, her mouth open in a wide o-shape of pain, and when she shouted her voice cracked with agony.

"GET BACK! BACK!"

Ramza, dazed and dizzy and aching, struggled to his feet and stumbled across the room. Mustadio—and to his surprise, Agrias, though she seemed riddled with wounds—did the same. Mustadio and Ramza carried Alicia between them, while Agrias and Lavian leaned on each other as they staggered back to the chapel's large doors.

A high, terrible sound, human and inhuman, made Ramza turn his head. There was Radia sword still held as though it might cut through the beam, drawing the energy into herself, not screaming but whining, like a kettle of tea about to boil. She was burning with Cuchulainn's power, bright and horrible. She looked like the stones when Alicia's beam had crashed into Cuchulainn's—glowing with the heat of it, close to melting. The toxic cloud was fearfully close to her now.

The moment ended, and Radia turned, and moved—with speed that shocked Ramza, a vague flesh-colored blur pounding across the chapel floor, fast as a chocobo. She skidded to a halt, the red-bladed sword clattering to the stone floor, and screamed, "LAVIAN!"

Lavian's head jerked up, and Radia grabbed at one of her hands. Her body shimmered, pouring power into Lavian, and Lavian's eyes widened and she snapped up her hands. As another green beam burned out of the poison cloud, a bubble of raw force burst into being, thicker somehow than any of the bubbles Ramza had seen her create before. Though it was translucent, it felt _solid._ And when Cuchulainn's beam splashed harmlessly around it, though it flickered a little.

"Clever!" laughed Cuchulainn, hidden by the fog. "But you will not last!"

"We need to get out of here," Mustadio panted, moving towards the doors. They rattled in their frames, but would not budge.

"Damn it," he hissed. "Agrias, can you-" He gestured vaguely.

"Not without my sword," she replied dully, and again Ramza was struck by how terrible she looked, mottled by raw wounds and oozing burns. "But even if I had it, it's probably hurt one of us. And..." She gestured around them. The chapel was thick with the poison, and with every moment the flickering field around them seemed feebler and feebler, and within the toxic fog Cuchulainn's shadow moved sinuously. Tts many mouths were laughing, and every laugh was a fresh gust of noxious gas.

"Hold on," muttered Radia, her face pale, as energy shimmered from her hands into Lavian's shoulders. "Just...just hold on."

"I can't," gasped Lavian, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I _can't_."

Ramza looked around. Agrias was barely standing: Alicia was still unconscious, her right arm blackened and bleeding; Mustadio clutched at his gun as though by will alone he could fill it with bullets once more. And every moment, the bubble of force protecting them from the toxic cloud shrank and flickered and threatened to fail.

And as he saw the sheer, horrific scale of their situation, he felt the old razor calm settle over him, narrowing his focus, quieting his aches. He took in the sight of all his flagging, failing friends, all of whom had risked so much and tried so hard to best the impossible monster that stood before them. And all they'd done seemed to click together into one coherent whole.

"Mustadio," Ramza said, and Mustadio's sweat-drenched head jerked back to him. "You have one bomb left?"

Mustadio nodded jerkily. Ramza moved back to Radia, and grabbed her sword from where she had dropped it when she had grabbed for Lavian, to feed power into her.

"Ramza?" Radia breathed. "What are you-"

"Lavian," Ramza said, ignoring Radia because whatever his guilt there wasn't time now. "Can you drop the front of the field, just for a moment?"

Lavian moved her head a fraction of an inch in a marginal nod, the tendons on her neck and the veins in her forehead standing out with the strain.

"Ramza!" Radia cried. "What are you-"

"Nothing less than you," Ramza said, and they held each others' eyes for a moment. She nodded at last, and Ramza turned away from her, and took Mustadio's side once more, as Mustadio clutched at another of those rough-wrapped gunpowder bombs.

"Get ready to throw," Ramza said, and then, "NOW!"

Mustadio pulled back his arm to throw. At the same time, the field in front of them disappeared, and green mist poured through the opening—and Ramza raised his free hand, with its rune of blood drawn upon the palm, and unleashed a steady tide of orange flames. He took two quick steps forwards as all his strength poured through his hand and cried, "Mustadio!"

He stopped casting, and threw himself down behind an intact pew as Mustadio's bomb hurtled out into the oncoming fog. His eyes had already begun to burn as the explosion thundered through the room, the force of it nearly knocking Ramza backwards, but Ramza braced himself against the fallen pew and with his free, trembling hand reached up to his chest, and touched the two runes he'd carved there.

These runes were not new—he had etched them onto this chestplate, as he had etched them onto every chestplate he'd worn since the campaign against the Death Corps. Though it had been an awful long time since he had nursed hope of winning without killing, he had never shaken the habit of carving this pair of runes. One to ease his breathing. One that boosted his immune system so it could fight off foreign toxins.

He rose to his feet, rushing towards Cuchulainn (one arm now blackened by the force of Mustadio's bomb), and the corpulent monster turned its grinning head towards him, the mouths upon its arms and legs still sighing gas. Its great mouth glowed green with threatening force.

"Come, Beoulve!" laughed the many voices, and the great mouth opened and spat out a beam of enervating force, straight towards Ramza. And Ramza, his eyes burning, his chest tight, raised Gaffgarion's red-bladed sword, and drank it in.

It was so _much._ He had known from his brief touch earlier how powerful it would be, and had seen first-hand the potential danger when Radia had sucked one of those beams into herself. He had been thrown by the sudden healing clarity of draining Gaffgarion's field, but that was still within the realm of his experience. It was a strong breeze in a world where such things were uncommon. But Cuchulainn's green beam was a tornado of force, and it boiled beneath Ramza's skin. He felt it within him, a force that threatened to tear him apart and leave nothing but a smear of blood and soul within the chapel, but he forced himself to keep drinking, forced himself to bear it, forced himself to keep walking on as the energy hammered into him, hammered _through_ him.

But it was too much, pouring into him, filling him to bursting, as though every organ in his body was a bladder full of fire, a hot pressure that would sunder him. He staggered on, one step, two, three, and then it was too much for him; he fell to one knee, barely keeping Gaffarion's sword between himself and the green blaze, steadying himself upon the rubble-strewn floor with his other hand.

And his fingers did not quite touch Alicia's scepter.

So close. So _close_. He had traced its path as Alicia had been sent flying: everything had been to get this close, and wield her scepter once again. To steal the strength that Cuchulainn had used, and turn it against him. But the scepter was out of reach, and without the scepter he could not command the same magic, and so he would die here, and his friends would die here-

No. Unacceptable. He had not fought so hard to let them die. He had not killed Gaffgarion to fail here. He had not fought and killed and bled to die here, demon or no.

His eyes flashed wide, and he snapped up his other hand again—the hand with the rune of blood upon its palm. Another flash of fire, bright and brutal, Cuchulainn's stolen power pouring through him in a flare of white heat, burst from his hand and crashed into Cuchulainn's thick legs. The creature staggered, gasping and cursing, and its great stomach-mouth ceased to breathe its green death and Ramza stumbled, dropped Gaffgarion's sword, and grabbed at Alicia's scepter.

His hands closed upon the cool metal, and Ramza tripped, stumbled, forced himself to roll to his feet even as his head pounded and his shoulder ached. Even after casting his spell there was still so much of Cuchulainn's energy inside him, wild and frenzied and fierce, and as Ramza rolled up right he was already sprinting, running so fast that the world around him was little more than a blur, leveling Alicia's scepter like a spear. The other mouths kept breathing out their terrible poison, and Ramza's chest was tight and his skin itched feverishly and his very thoughts seemed aflame but the runes on his chest kept feeding him strength and Cuchulainn's stolen energy was warding him, too, and he had his chance now, and the monster was close and its great stomach-mouth was burning with green light once again.

Ramza lunged forwards, and shoved the tip of Alicia's scepter into the mouth on Cuchulainn's copious belly. And at the same moment, he imagined fire, and forced all his stolen strength into the scepter. What ignited was less a fire and more a miniature sun, a volcanic explosion of heat and strength that Ramza could not have imagined tearing through him, burning away the cloud of poison around them. It was though he was vomiting power into Cuchulainn's body, such force and fury and acidic brilliant that it left his throat, his bones, his soul raw with it. Brighter, hotter, more and more, and soon fire was dribbling from the other mouths on Cuchulainn's body and all the myriad voices were screaming with pain as the monster burned. The mouth upon its human head opened wide, and belched fire as the pupiless eyes bubbled and popped, and black ooze dribbled from the sockets like tears.

At last, the terrible stolen strength was exhausted. Ramza sagged backwards, away from the sunken, burnt, blackened mass. A few mouths still worked, whispering, pleading. Something else seemed to be happening, just beneath Ramza's awareness; it was as though the demon was losing substance, evaporating like water set to boil.

"How..." rasped the monster, voices whimpering with pain. "This...cannot...I was to...to make a kingdom worthy of...to make sure that..."

As before, a shadow seemed to hang around the monster, only this time the shadow as draining away, fading with every passing moment.

"The Angel...I will not...die I...I must punish...I..."

There was a terrific burst of light, streaked (thickened?) with underlying darkness. The force of it shattered the stained glass window beyond it; Ramza staggered backwards, dropping Alicia's scepter as he shielded his eyes from the rain of tinkling glass. Slowly, the light faded; Ramza blinked the tears from his eyes, and saw the Scorpio Stone hovering before him, still glowing faintly.

Then the glow dimmed to nothing, and the Stone fell to the ground with a heavy _clink_.

Ramza stared at the Stone upon the ground. In the fury of the fire he had unleashed, his mood had changed. He felt sluggish and surreal, barely tethered to reality. Slowly, as though moving in a dream, he turned to face his comrades at the rear of the room. The bubble was gone; Lavian had her hands wrapped around Alicia's shoulders, pouring energy into her. The others stood at various points across the room, staring blankly at the place where Cuchlainn had been. Now that the threat had passed, they all seemed stunned.

"That...that was a..." Lavian seemed unable to speak.

"A Lucavi," Agrias managed, shaking her head. "A Lucavi...I don't...how..."

Ramza felt the same shock in Agrias' voice echoing inside him, reverberating through his bones, amplifying his aches and pains and exhaustion. He looked around and searched the faces of his friends, and saw his disbelief mirrored there. Everyone shaken, everyone reeling, everyone pale.

A Lucavi. A demon of legend, springing from the body of a Cardinal, powered by the magic of a Zodiac Stone. How was it possible? How was any of it possible?

"We...we have to move." It was Radia who spoke, her face as pale as any of theirs, but her eyes narrowed in concentration, as though trying to blind herself to the impossible thing they had just faced. "The longer we're here...no one except us knows what the Cardinal...what..." She took a steadying breath. "We have to move. If we don't..."

Of course. A desperate battle against a demon did not put an end to their mortal concerns. They had run circles around the Gryphon Knights of Lionel, but those soldiers were still out there, looking for their assailants. And their battle against the Cardinal had not exactly been quiet. Even Lionel's gates would not stop their pursuers for long.

"Agrias," Ramza said, though even with the anxious pressure of unseen dangers his mind and tongue still felt terribly sluggish. "How did...how did you...when Delita saved you, how..."

Saint above, so hard to speak, so hard to think, so hard to act, and what little concentration he'd managed to must dissipated in a stab of pain and doubt when he said Delita's name. Had Delita known of Gaffgarion's presence? Had he known about the Cardinal, and the Stone?

"A postern," Agrias said mechanically, her tone flat, her eyes wide. "Leads out where the river...in the mountains. Had me swim out. Met me later, with my gear."

"Can we...?" Mustadio started, and then trailed off.

"I...yes," Agrias answered. "Yes, it's...it's this..." Then her eyes widened still further, and her face contorted with sudden fury. "What in God's name!" she howled. "A Church plot is bad enough, but the fucking Lucavi? Is this a children's tale?"

"Easy, captain," Lavian mumbled, though she was not even looking at Agrias: she was still slumped on the ground, with Alicia's head cradled in her lap as her shimmering hands worked to heal Alicia's blackened arm.

"No!" Agrias bellowed. "This is not _easy_. There is nothing easy about this! How...how do we...how can we..." Her face was red with rage now, and she seemed to be choking on her anger.

She was right. Nothing easy at all. Nothing easy about searching for a Princess when the whole world conspired to keep them separated (and did Delita? He had warned them of the trap, but not of Gaffgarion, and not of the Princess' absence. Had he known? Ramza could not escape the question). Nothing easy about killing Gaffgarion, with his daughter at your side. Nothing easy about confronting a corrupt Cardinal, and seeing that Cardinal transformed by a holy relic into an unholy terror. Ramza felt just as had when the floor had begun to cave, only this time it was the foundations of his world that were crumbling beneath him, threatening to plunge his sanity down into the dark.

And unbidden, a face appeared in his mind's eye. A round, weathered face, framed by dark hair. The face of Baron Grimms.

"Grimms," Ramza said aloud, and looked at Radia. "Baron Grimms."

Radia's narrowed eyes narrowed still further, until they were little more than slits. "What?"

"Grimms!" Ramza exlcaimed. "Grimms and the Black Sheep!"

"Oh," Radia said, and then her eyes widened. "Oh!"

"The Black Sheep?" Agrias repeated, with a note of distaste. "Those mercenaries?"

"Mercenaries, sure," Ramza said. "Mercenaries who already distrusted all these rebellions. Bet we can get the Baron on our side, if we let him know what the Church is doing."

"You think he can stop this?" Radia asked.

"I think he's got the contacts, and the motive," Ramza said. "And besides..." He looked toward Agrias. "Whatever the Church plans with Ovelia, it would help to have more soldiers."

Agrias nodded. "It...it might indeed."

"It's a start," Radia agreed. "He was headed for Zeltennia?"

"Looking for some cult," Ramza said.

Radia nodded. "Then let's get moving."

Radia made to head back to the altar, to grab her scepter. She tripped almost at once, her tired legs entangling with one another. Ramza, weary himself, hurried to her side, but when he tried to help her she shrugged off his hands. Ramza flinched away, and Radia lifted her green eyes to him and shook her head. "I can't," she said.

No, of course not. She would not want to be touched by the hands that had killed her father.

Radia stumbled on. One-by-one, the exhausted cohort managed to take their feet, and grab their weapons. Alicia was still unconscious: Ramza and Mustadio carried her between them, as Lavian used the scepter to tend to her. At the front of the room, Radia was kneeling in front of the maroon Stone, reaching out to touch it as though it might burn her. When nothing happened, she picked it up, and began to crawl through the shattered window where the stained glass had been. One by one they followed in her wake, but after Ramza had helped Alicia through, he took a moment to look over the devastation of the chapel, the broken masonry and shattered stones, the flickering of the cracked runelights. The weight of the night's events settled heavy on him, and for a moment he closed his eyes, and felt the yawning of that bleak chasm beneath his mind.

But there was still hope. They had knowledge of a great plot, and a potential ally with power enough to help them. He could not afford to give up yet—for his sake, and the Princess', and maybe all of Ivalice's.

He staggered after the others.


	61. Chapter 60: Promises

(Thanks for reading, everyone! Just one more chapter to go before we wrap Part Two! If you've liked what you've read so far, give my other stuff a gander at quickascanbe dot com)

 **Chapter 60: Promises**

Bound again, upon a chocobo's back. Bound, but this time she nursed no hope of rescue. There was no safe quarter in all of Ivalice for a false Princess.

She had not protested when Vormav, Delita, and the Cardinal had returned a short time after they had left her despairing in the darkness. As they had unchained her, bound her in ropes, and led her swiftly through Lionel's halls, spiriting her through the kitchen door where Ramza and Mustadio had left days past. A brown-feathered chocobo stood waiting for them.

"You may tell the truth, if you wish," Vormav said, as he helped her up onto the bird's back. "No one will believe you—and if they do, you shall pay a higher price than us."

Of course she would. She could not look for help among the Hokuten, the Nanten, or the Church. And the Cardinal, traitor though he was, had outlined how precarious her position would be even if she looked for help beyond the borders of Ivalice.

No hope, anywhere she turned. She would wear her chains, or she would die.

Delita made no effort to talk to her, while they rode or while they rested. And they never rested for long. In the hottest part of the late summer days, Delita would find some shaded spot far from any road, untie her long enough to let her tend to her needs, then bind her once more as they dozed in their chosen hiding place.

She never fought him. She never tried to run. What few friends she had might well be dead. Even if she escaped Delita, she would never be safe.

They avoided any path, rising and falling across the rolling, unsteady hills of Lionel. Gradually the hills hardened into solid stone as the Zirekile mountains rose steadily in the distance. Sooner than she would have credited, they were among the mountains themselves, along a winding, switchback rut that climbed higher and higher, passing by old shacks and hardy, bitter saplings. Perched in front of Delita with her hands bound in front of her, she watched without interest. She had not known of this little trail up into the mountains—barely wide enough for the bird they rode, sure-footed as it was—but nothing surprised her anymore. How could it, after all she had seen, and all she had learned?

No comfort anymore. Her friends had been taken from her. Her _name_ had been taken from her. She was just a puppet, as Vormav had said.

Now Delita switched their schedule—the precarious path he was following was too dangerous to climb in the darkest hours of the night. So whenever the moon was too dark or the night to heavy, he would find some place for them to rest. Then he would wake her at moonrise, and they traveled beneath the moon's ghostly light, making all the mountains world dusty and ethereal, as though it might blow away with a careless breath. Ovelia wished it would.

The moonlight faded as dawn's glow brightened the horizon. At last, their ascent came to an end: beneath the early twilight, they found themselves upon a wide and rocky plain, leaning granite boulders presiding over congregations of sparse grass. A wide river cleaved this plain in two, gurgling and splashing as it went; towards the end of the plain, it disappeared in a sudden roaring plummet.

"The Falls," Ovelia said softly, her voice croaking with disuse, and remembered; the desperate flight through the forest, as Hokuten hunters had come chasing. Delita, throwing his body between her and the arrows of her enemies. And her friends, cutting a bloody path through those who would see her dead.

Pointless. All of it, pointless. They had fought and died and struggled and sacrificed for a puppet.

When she spoke, she felt Delita stiffen behind her. Quietly, his voice tight with strain, he replied, "That's...that's right." The chocobo beneath them rode on a little longer, then Delita pulled sharply on the reins. "We're camping here for awhile," Delita said. "Waiting on an escort."

Ovelia did not bother replying to him.

Delita helped her down from the chocobo, then refilled their canteen and set up the tent they shared. When he offered her the canteen, she drank; when he offered her the dried meat and fruit, she ate mechanically, without tasting what she chewed.

Delita was snoring soon enough—neither of them had gotten much sleep, having had to change their schedule to manage the mountain trail. But Ovelia did not feel sleepy. She did not even feel tired. There was a strange, hollow clarity to her thoughts; she felt as though she been drained of blood, so that everything rang with crystalline sharpness.

How far below was the bridge where she and Delita had faced off with her Hokuten pursuers? Not far, surely—a matter of a few hundred feet. She'd fought so hard, and it had achieved nothing. She'd run so far, only to end up back here.

She wasn't sleepy. She wasn't tired. But she found she was afraid—more afraid than she'd been even with assassins standing in front of her. The idea that this would be her life now—this emptiness, this purposelessness, this constant, crushing knowledge of the strings around her, pulling her to dance at the will of masters she could never face...

It was early morning now, golden light leaking through the canvas of their tent. Ovelia's hands were still bound tight, her fingers naked (they'd taken her ring, of course they'd taken her ring, not even the pretense of power would be left to her). But Delita had left her legs unbound. She shifted slowly, worming her way across the floor of the tent. Delita stirred in response, but did not stop his quiet snoring.

Slowly, so slowly, she wormed her way to the tent entrance. Her skin was tight now, her pulse thundering in her ears. She was afraid of what she planned to do. She was as afraid that Delita would wake in time to stop her.

She crawled out of the tent entrance, clumsily leveraged herself upright, and walked as quietly and quickly as she could manage, cutting a diagonal path across the plateau. She met the riverbank just before it reached the sharp break that led it cascading down again, and inched along its side, until the tips of her shoes lined up with the edge of the rock, and the mist wet her face.

The curtain of white water pounded down to the stones below, churning to a frenzy before it raced along again. She could see the long gorge hundreds of feet below, and the rocky slopes on which she had fought for her life. It was a long way down.

She heard a shout behind her, muffled by roaring of the Falls. She turned slowly, deliberately, as Delita dashed towards her, his face white, his eyes wide.

"Ovelia!" he shouted, over and over again, louder as he came closer. "Ovelia, no!"

Ovelia felt the void behind her as though it had physical weight. Nevertheless, she shied back a little, teetering on the brink, and cried, "Don't come any closer!"

Delita stumbled to a halt, his hands raised in surrender. "Okay. Okay. I'm not."

Good. He could stay there, too far to reach her, to far to stop her.

She looked over her shoulder and stared down the path of the cascading water, down to where the sharp rocks glistened far below. It would be so easy—just take a single step, and rob her foes of whatever they hoped to gain from her. No more claustrophobia behind stone walls. No more chains to bind her.

"Is that what you want?" Delita asked, his voice more curious than scared.

"No one cares what I want," Ovelia answered, looking back to him.

"No," Delita agreed. "They don't."

Ah, it still hurt. Not far from here, she had pretended to be a Princess of worth and merit. She had tried to look regal, believing if she somehow acted the part she could somehow force the world to accept her. And now her Lionesses were gone, and she was alone, in the power of enemies who would use her as they pleased, confident they could destroy her if she turned against them. She wasn't even Ovelia anymore. She was just a nameless puppet.

"Why shouldn't I?" she asked, and hated the sound of tears in her voice.

"What answer could I give you, that you would take?" Delita asked.

She tried and failed to glare at him. She didn't know what she wanted from him. She didn't know why she didn't simply end it.

"I thought about it, once," Delita said, after the silence had stretched.

"You...what?" She stared at him.

Delita shrugged. His face was pale, but he did not look quite so scared. "Things were bad, and I...I thought I might feel like that forever."

Ovelia felt a little ripple of shock and fascination. "But you didn't."

Delita shook his head. He kept one hand raised; with the other, he reached into the pocket of his trousers, and pulled out a simple ring with a little stone set upon it. It was her ring—the ring that had been taken from her finger, when the Cardinal had revealed his true colors. The ring he had taken from her, when had bound her with ropes and dragged her from her guards.

She stared at the ring in his hand. He stared at her. Neither spoke.

"What do you want, Ovelia?" Delita asked, so soft she could hardly believe she could hear him.

Ovelia didn't know where to begin. Her Lionesses, who had risked life and limb to save her, were gone to parts unknown. Her friends were in danger, if they were not already dead. Her enemies sat upon thrones and commanded armies, and her saviors wanted only to use her for their unknown ends. She had nothing left. Not even her name

"I want to fix it," Ovelia said, hardly aware of what she was saying.

"Fix what?"

Ovelia shook her head. "Everything," she whispered.

Delita smiled. "A lofty goal." He took a step towards her. "May I...?"

Scarcely aware of what she was doing, Ovelia nodded, and extended her bound hands. Delita closed the distance between them, took her hands in his calloused grip and slipped the ring upon her right finger. Then he stood there, with her hands in his, and Ovelia was surprised to find she did not resent his touch. His dark eyes burned just as fiercely as they had when first she'd met him, but from this close the fire seemed softer somehow, warmer.

"I care," he said.

"What?"

"I care what you want," Delita said. "And if you'll let me, I'll help you. We'll fix everything."

Ovelia shook her head. "Why should I trust you?"

Delita almost laughed. "What choice do you have?"

Ovelia's jaw clenched, and she tugged her hand from Delita's grip. "I can still choose not to trust you."

The laughter drained away from Delita's face. "I know."

They stared at each other for a long time.

"You told me once that no one could guarantee my safety," she said.

Delita nodded. "No one can. But I intend to try."

"Why?"

Delita looked past her then—down to the roaring Falls.

"My sister died," he whispered. "Because it was easier to kill her than it was to save her. Because she was a pawn to the powerful, and they felt no guilt in discarding her when it was convenient. I am so fucking _tired_ of the kingdom that allows such a thing to happen, over and over. To commoners and nobles and soldiers and princesses and..." He trailed off. The fire in his eyes was bare embers.

"You deserve better," he whispered. "I deserve better. We all deserve..." He looked away from the falls, back to her. "I wanted to fix everything. That's why I didn't..."

Ovelia stared into those dark eyes, took in the burn scars gleaming on his cheek, the pearls of moisture in his hair. She stared at the man who had beaten her, mocked her, fought for her, protected her. This mess of contradictions, who said he wanted what she wanted. A man who had betrayed her. A man who had saved her.

"Promise me," she said, because she didn't know what else to say.

His grip tightened on her hands. "Promise you what?"

"That we'll fix it," she said. "That...that I can trust you."

He stared at her. She stared at him.

"I won't make promises I can't keep," he said. "There are no guarantees."

She felt something break inside her, pieces of her heart falling into the dark. She glared at him, and whispered, "We don't make promises knowing we can keep them. We make promises because we have to try."

He closed his eyes. The river rushed besides them, muttering to itself.

"If I can keep you safe, I will," he whispered. "If I can earn your trust, I will. If...if we can fix everything..."

He fell silent again. She felt herself calming, the infinite bleak future fading. The far horizon no longer seemed quite so dim.

"I promise that what I can do, I will," he said at last.

It was no oath of knights and heroes. It was not the kind of pledge that Agrias had made, that Alicia and Lavian would have made, that Ramza or Radia might have sworn. But all those trusted friends had failed, manipulated and betrayed by the man they'd hoped could save her. Delita offered no such certainties in an uncertain world. He offered her only a promise that he would try. And Ovelia found she believed him, if only because she had learned that that was all anyone could ever promise her.

"Alright," she said.

"And you?" he asked.

Ovelia blinked. "Me what?"

"What do you promise?"

Ovelia blinked. "I...promise?"

Delita laughed. "You don't expect me to offer an oath without hearing one in return."

"Yours was barely a promise!"

"Barely a promise is still better than _no_ promise."

Ovelia felt herself torn between frustration and amusement, and was surprised to find that things felt peculiarly normal. For the first time in days, she did not feel pointless, or alone.

"The same," she said, after a moment's consideration. "Whatever is in my power-"

"Be careful," Delita said, and there was no humor in his tone. Her attention focused back on him, found he was regarding her seriously. "To fix everything will be a long, strange, difficult road. I think it will take us where we want to go, but the things we will be required to do..."

There was weight in his words, weight that reminded her of something. It took her a moment to remember what it was—the grief in his tone, when she had asked about her friend at Lionel.

"My friends," she said. "What happened to them?"

Delita shrugged. "Last I heard, they lived. But that may not last, with all the powers arrayed against them."

"You underestimate them," Ovelia said sharply.

"And you overestimate the dangers they face!" retorted Delita. "The Church's influence spreads far and wide. Even if they escape Lionel alive, they will be hunted. How long before their luck runs out?"

"So why aren't we helping them?" Ovelia cried.

Delita's eyes softened. "What, by fighting at their side? Risking our lives, the same as them?"

"Why not?" Ovelia asked.

"And what will that accomplish?" Delita shook his head. "This is no world for Braves, Ovelia. A righteous few who take on the powers and win...well," he amended. "Maybe. But think for a moment. You know what's missing from those old stories? I bet most of those Braves died. If not all of them."

Ovelia scoffed. "They were heroes."

"They were _stories,_ " Delita replied. "Look at your own guards, Ovelia. Courageous and brave and true and strong, and even they could not protect you."

Ovelia felt grief, anger, and doubt choking her again. "So what would you rather do?" she demanded.

"Help them," Delita said. "Fight the same battle, on our own field. Play the game until we can break it."

Ovelia regarded him coolly. "And you think that will fix everything?"

"It's a start."

Ovelia shook her head and looked away from him. "So we follow the Cardinal's plan. I am your arrow aimed at Louveria, and when I sit the throne I will be your puppet, to be deposed at your whim."

"You are no one's puppet," Delita said fiercely. She looked back at him, and was caught by the bright fire that had returned to his eyes. "You never have been, and you never will be."

Ovelia laughed nervously. That fire seemed to radiate inside her, warming her, buzzing and blurring her thoughts like alcohol. "You told me there were no guarantees."

He smiled. "What I can do, I will."

Ovelia searched his face—the burned cheek, the warm eyes. Then she squeezed his hand. "Then so will I."

Delita nodded, and drew a knife from his belt. He sawed through the ropes binding her hands, then tugged her away from the cliff. After a moment she allowed herself to be pulled away from the plummet, only to fall against his back when he suddenly froze. "What are you-" she started, before she saw her.

Standing by the chocobo was a blonde woman, with her hair tied back in a high ponytail. She had a severe, pointed face, with a long nose and quick blue eyes that never rested in one place for long. She was stroking the chocobo's neck absently, but those quick eyes were fixed on them, flickering between their faces.

"Hand-in-hand with a Princess, Del?" she asked. Her voice was coarse with emotion, wry with humor. "Not getting too close to our charge, are we?"

Delita dropped Ovelia's hand as though it had burned him. "You're welcome to replace me if you like, Val" Delita said, his voice tight with strain. "Oh, that's right. You can't."

"Don't push your luck," Val replied. Her eyes settled on Ovelia's. "I don't think you'd be so eager to hold that hand if you knew what it had done, Princess."

Ovelia felt a flash of anger, and welcomed it. It was the first chance she'd had to feel properly angry since Vormav had told her about who she was. "If there is something you wish to tell me, you may do so," she replied. "If you wish to simply make dramatic proclamations with no evidence, you may keep your words to yourself."

Val's thin eyebrows arched. "A sharp tongue for a Princess."

"If you come closer," Ovelia said. "You may find that is not the only thing to surprise you."

Val chuckled and looked at Delita. "Why isn't she bound?"

"She's more use to us if she's on our side," Delita said.

"She's got no choice _but_ to be on our side," Val grunted.

Delita shrugged. "A volunteer's better than a conscript."

"Depends on the job you need doing." Val's eyes flickered dismissively back to Ovelia. "So you're with us, Princess?"

"You may refer to me as your Highness," Ovelia said stiffly.

Val's coral lips quirked. "Your Highness," she repeated. "We have your support?"

"That would rather depend on what we intend to do," Ovelia answered.

So strange, to have her spine again! But walking away from the cliff, and arguing with Delita, had awakened something in her. It was rather like the ferocity and confidence which had guided her actions in the days after Orbonne, but sharper somehow, clearer, grounded in reality. She did not know if this young woman was some potentate to rival the Cardinal and Vormav. And she found she did not care. Even if all she'd believed was a lie, they needed that lie. She was not powerless. And she was not alone.

Val studied Ovelia's face for a time, then said, "Thought you knew?"

"I know we intend to challenge Louveria," Ovelia said. "But I have not yet been apprised as to the how."

Val glanced at Delita. "You wanna tell her?"

Delita chuckled. He looked at Ovelia with an odd expression on his face—a twisted, uncertain smile. "Ovelia," he said. "We are just now going to finish the journey we started when we first left Orbonne Monastery."

Ovelia folded her arms across her chest. "And where exactly are we going?"

"Bethla Garrison," Delita said, and chuckled again—a jagged, uncertain sound.

Ovelia stared at him. She looked between Delita and Val. Both had a slightly amused, slightly pained expression, but nothing that seemed to indicate they were joking. Riding right into the stronghold of the man whose soldiers had attacked her. Riding right to the fort they'd ridden past, weeks ago. All this time spent running around, arguing, scheming, fighting...all to no end.

The laughter bubbled up all at once, overwhelming her. She tried to hold it back, and that just made it worse; it bucked loose, brayed from her throat, and soon she was hunched over with tears in her eyes, laughing and unable to stop. And beside her, Delita was doing the same; clutching at his stomach, roaring with helpless laughter, and every time one of them seemed about to stop they caught the others' eye and that set them off all over again.

Val watched them, her thin eyebrows arched so high they almost touched her hairline. "Am I missing something?"

Delita, giggling a little, wiped a tear from his eye. "Just..." He looked at Ovelia, and bit back another snort of laughter, as Ovelia snickered.

"Just a long way, to...to end up back here," Ovelia managed, struggling not to laugh again. Absurd. How absurd it all was.

But absurd or not, they were walking into danger. Absurd or not, she had been thrust onto a stage where the great powers of Ivalice would all be arrayed around her, trying to use her and destroy her. And if she intended to fix everything, she would have her work cut out for her. Delita had made that clear.

But perhaps she was equal to the challenges that lay before her. She felt awake again, aware of her limitations and her abilities, her thoughts sharp, her mind clear. Above all else, she felt alive, and determined to stay that way.

"So," Ovelia said, straightening up. "What's our plan?"


	62. Chapter 61: The War of the Lions

(And with that, we've finished Part Two, and our story's about one-third of the way finished! It's been a crazy few months, everyone, and when I get the website reconfigured, I'll tell you all about it. For now, I need time to sort out other projects, so I'll be taking a six week break before we launch Part Three. If you're hungry for more content, check out quickascanbe dot com, and follow me on Twitter and Facebook. Thank you so much for reading)

 **Chapter 61: The War of the Lions**

Bethla Garrison crackled. Electricity hummed through the air, the tingling weight of a storm about to break. Every inhabitant of the fortress, from the lowest servant to the highest courtier, scurried with a look of dread and panic in their eyes, as though waiting for that first crack of thunder to signal the downpour.

Count Cidolfas Orlandeau could not begrudge them their fear. He too, was afraid—perhaps more frightened than he had been since the last battle against Ordallia's forces, with the thunder of cannons and the flash of distant spells, the deep rumbling of cliffs collapsing as the Nanten and their allies had fought to keep the foe from Zeltennia's heartland. Cid had been at war since he had been old enough to wield a sword; the past years of uneasy peace had not dulled his instincts, or his memories.

The Nanten had been assembled in full, patrolling the far fringes of Zeltennia as the bulk of their forces massed along the border. The Marquis de Limberry had assembled his own army, as had the Viscount Blanche and all the lords of Zeltennia and Limberry. They had begun these preparations when Louveria had accused both Goltanna and Ovelia of treason. They had been made more tense still by the conflagration near the old Ydoran shrine—the conflagration that had wiped out both the Cult of the Ebon Eye and the Black Sheep who had gone to stamp them out. And now they found themselves, stunned, reeling, and unsure, with the Princess Ovelia Atkascha herself among them.

Cid's old, weather-worn cloak flared around him as he hurried down the hall to the grand chamber where Goltanna had called his counselors together. Olan hurried at his side. "Tell me again, Olan," Cid said.

Olan's reddish brown eyes were steady, but sweat stood out against his pale forehead. "A single chocobo approached from the northern highroad last night," he began, for the third time. "This chocobo bore two riders and was accompanied by a single woman on foot. When challenged by a soldier on patrol, one of them claimed to his companion as the Princess Ovelia Atkascha. The soldier reported the matter to his commander, who brought them directly to the Duke."

But none of this made sense! Goltanna had his doubts about Ovelia's guilt, but he had ostensibily agreed with the official story about her treason, and sworn she would be brought to justice. It was no surprise that Goltanna would at least offer safe haven to the Princess until he had learned the truth. But the soldiers had no reason to believe that would be the case. Which soldier? Which commander?

"I'll need you to gather information on the garrison of the highroad gate," Cid said.

"I'm already begun assembling a dossier, father."

Always so quick! Cid smiled at his adopted son, his blue eyes softening for a moment, his trim silvered beard gleaming in the runelight from the walls. "Thank you, Olan."

Olan flushed and nodded so his pointed chin almost hit his chest.

They entered the vaulted chamber from which so much war had been commanded—by any standard a throne room, though all Goltanna's followers were careful never to call it such. Goltanna was proud of his royal blood, but his rivals feared it, and any insinuation of power and prestige above Goltanna's already-lofty station would bring unofficial censure at the very least, if it did not provoke an all-out war. Cid was sensistive to these realities, even if he found them pointless; Bethla Garrison had been a stronghold of the Nanten since before Cid had led them, and had been the seat of great powers since the time of the Ydorans.

Goltanna occupied the marble throne on the far side of the room. Cid admired his liege lord's composure; in spite of the tension that racked the fortress, Goltanna seemed attentive without being concerned. His heavy mustache drooped down past well past his chin, and his hands were clasped in front of his ever-growing belly. Though the years had fattened Goltanna, they had not decreased his essential strength and solidity; he was stout more than he was fat, and seemed as stable and eternal as an ancient oak. The runelight gleamed off his bald pate.

And seated at his side, in an ornate wooden chair reserved for guests of state, was the Princess Ovelia. It was Cid's first time seeing her—a blonde woman, slight but with tremendous poise. Her hands were folded in the lap of her faded, ragged dress. Large brown eyes were set back in a pale face, and Cid was at once struck by the power of those eyes. They regarded him as he came in with a distant interest, as though he were a bird soaring in the distance. That was a royal gaze.

"Cid!" Goltanna called, as Cid entered the room. "You took your time!"

"I apologize, my lord," Cid replied. He fell to one knee, with Olan beside him. "Given recent circumstances, I felt it best to reorder our forces, in case our guest should face pursuit."

Goltanna nodded. "I assumed as much. Thank you, Count."

"Thank, you," Ovelia said, with a smile. "I have heard so much of the Count Orlandeau. It is a rare pleasure to see reputation match reality."

Cid looked up. "You do me too much credit, your Highness."

Goltanna gestured for them to rise, and Cid and Olan did so, moving to a corner of the room near a high window, close to the throne. "We didn't offer her a change of clothes?" Cid muttered to Olan.

"We did," Olan replied. "She was adamant that we hold counsel at once."

That made sense. It was nearly a month since the Princess had fled from Orbonne, ostensibly the chief architect of a plot to assassinate Queen Louveria and Prince Orinus. She was wanted far and wide across the kingdom. Her position in Bethla Garrison was still precarious, and she was probably loathe to rest until she had a better grasp of her situation.

But the fact that it represented such political savvy confused Cid further. The Princess had bene kept far from the reins of power since Orinus' birth. She had been denied counselors and support. How would she have learned any of this?

While he puzzled over this, Cid looked around the room. A number of courtiers stood closer to the door, where a guard of some of his best Nanten stood waiting. A similar coterie of Nanten stood at the foot of the stairs that led up to the dais on which Goltanna and Ovelia sat. At the base of these stairs stood the Bishop of Canne-Beurich, his dark eyes glittering, and Chancellor Glevanne, his silvered pompadour a little limp, his eyes distant and thoughtful. Besides Cid, most of Goltanna's trusted advisors were scattered across eastern Ivalice, in command of their own forces—Viscount Blanche, Baron Bolmina, and Marquis Elmdor among them. It made for a rather lonely chamber; few indeed were the voices of reason.

But Cid's idle thoughts were forgotten when the Duke stood.

"I have gathered you all to announce my decision," Goltanna said, his hands braced behind his back to give him military poise. "I had nursed private doubts about our Princess' guilt, but in the absence of evidence to the contrary, I gave my orders to you all, to follow the Crown's orders. But her Highness has informed me that, far from being a sinister architect of devious plots, she has been the victim of such a conspiracy. And though I am loyal to the Crown of Ivalice, I will not allow it to simply kill a rightful heir to the Throne on the whim of a madwoman."

Cid's breath caught in his throat. That was dangerous talk, and there was no doubt Louveria would hear of it one way or another. Goltanna was intentionally provoking Louveria.

"Ovelia Atkascha is in my care," Goltanna said. "If the Crown wishes to arrange her a trial, so be it. But it will be a fair trial, conducted on territory I control. I do not trust her accuser to offer her impartiality."

He turned and bowed his head to Ovelia. Ovelia inclined her head in turn. "Thank you, cousin," she said. "It has been a long journey to reach you, but I am glad to see you have earned your reputation every bit as much as your soldier. If not more."

"You do me too much credit, your Highness," Goltanna said.

"I hope not," Ovelia said. "For if I am wrong, we are both in terrible danger."

Goltanna's head jerked up. "What do you mean, your Highness?"

Ovelia raised her voice. "The conspiracy that was aimed at me was aimed as much at you, cousin," she replied. "The man who saved me can tell you more."

Goltanna studied her for a moment, then gestured to the Nanten at the door. The soldiers in their red cloaks hurried outside, and returned mere moments later with a soldier in their midst. Clay-red hair hung down around his tan face, and one cheek was mottled with old burns. He had no sword at his hip—few indeed were the armed men allowed into the throne room—but he still wore armored leathers.

He fell to one knee as soon as the Nanten released him, bowing his head. "Your Highness," he said. "My lord."

"Rise," Goltanna said, gesturing again. "It is too much to ask the Princess' rescuer to bow to me."

"It is only your due, my lord," the young man answered, though he rose to his feet.

"Tell them your story, Delita," Ovelia prompted. "We haven't much time."

The young man nodded, and closed his dark eyes. His face was creased with weariness and pain. But something bothered Cid—something about the boy's name.

"My lords," he said. "I cannot claim credit for much of my deeds. If I have succeeded, it is only by the benediction of our Saint, by the sacrifice of a valiant Lionsguard, and by the insight of the Baron Grimms."

"You're one of the Black Sheep?" Cid asked, studying the boy. It was possible—Grimms' men had been a motley crew drawn from every station and every corner of Ivalice.

"A newcomer, my lord," Delita said, inclining his head. "I had only just joined them, when..." He trailed off and looked around. "Is there...is there word of them?"

Goltanna stared. "You...you hadn't heard?"

"Heard?" Delita replied at once, his voice taut. "Heard what?"

"Ah..." Goltanna trailed off, blinking sheepishly.

Cid glanced at his Olan, who nodded and stepped forward. "With your permission, my lord?" Goltanna nodded, and Olan looked to Delita. "I am sorry to break this news to you, Ser Heiral, but the Order is no more."

Delita stared at Olan for a long time. "I'm sorry?" he said, in a whisper that seemed about to fade into silence at any moment.

"You are aware of their last mission?" Olan asked. Ah, clever that: test whether the boy was a member of the Sheep as he claimed.

"I was present for much of it," Delita replied. "The Order of the Ebon Eye was plundering an Ydoran shrine and attacking anyone who tried to stop them. That is where we..." Delita trailed off, shaking his head. "What happened?"

"The Ydoran ruins held some power we did not know," Olan continued, firm but gentle. "The resulting spell...there were no survivors. On either side."

Delita's head jerked down in a clumsy attempt at a nod. His mouth worked, and his hands opened and closed. "I..." Delita shook his head. "I did not imagine...that the Largs would..."

Goltanna straightened up. "The Largs?"

Delita's eyes were closed. He nodded again, with a little more strength. "I am sorry, my lord. I..."

"No, no," Goltanna murmured. "Of course."

Cid glanced towards his son, who wore an expression of neutral curiosity that would have appeared authentic to any outside observer. But Cid saw the slight frowning curve to his mouth, the way one temple pulsed and the way one eye squinted. Delita's story seemed sensible enough to Cid, but something bothered him. What?

"Delita," Ovelia said. Delita looked up, and she said, in almost the same tone as Olan had used when sharing news of the Black Sheep, "There will be time for grief later. But my cousin must know of the powers arrayed against Ivalice. We owe your friends that much, at least."

Delita's eyes were wide and hurt, but at the Princess' words they narrowed. He drew a deep, shaking breath, and nodded more firmly. "I apologize, my lords," he said, raising his voice and looking around the room. "When the Baron sent me to warn the Princess and her guards, I did not think...I hoped to be reunited with them, so we could put a stop to this conspiracy."

"What conspiracy is that?" Chancellor Glevanne asked, his voice thick with evident distrust.

Delita glanced at the Chancellor, then away. "My lords," he said, raising his trembling voice and looking around the room. "You are some of the best and brightest of Ivalice. I do not say this to flatter you; I say this because I know you already have your own suspicions. Suspicions of loyal Lionsguard soldiers assassinated in Leslia. Suspicions of men and women who dress in Nanten cloaks and take action that would disgrace their commander. Suspicions of a Queen who would imprison all who threaten her power. Suspicions of the brother whose army enables her madness. And suspicions of the chaos that has spread like wildfire across every part of our kingdom."

As he spoke, Delita's voice had steadied, and assumed an orator's persuasive cadence. Even Cid felt part of himself captivated, as though listening to a talented bard relate a compelling story. At once, he understood Olan's distrust. This seemed too much a performance.

"I was recruited by the Baron as a result of his suspicions," Delita continued. "He feared the hands that pulled upon our strings. And when he found proof of the plot-"

"What proof is this?" Olan asked, polite as ever.

Delita looked up at Olan. Olan stared steadily back. After a moment, Delita said, "The bulk of our evidence rests in the hands of my comrade, Valerie."

"Valerie..." the Bishop mumbled from his place near Goltanna's side "Valerie Amfra? The mage?"

"You know her, Bishop?" Goltanna said in some surprise.

"I do," the Bishop said. "A promising member of the Magical Academy." The Bishop's pale face was set. "We had hoped to recruit her for the Templar Garrison here, in fact, but we had lost track of her until she showed up with these two in tow." He nodded to Delita and Ovelia.

"She was the one who first came to Grimms," Delita said. "She was part of the Academy team sent to investigate the Ydoran ruins, where the Ebon Eye..."

"I heard of this," the Bishop said. "I thought the Ebon Eye slaughtered every member of that team? That was part of what made them so dangerous," he added to Goltanna. "They stole some of the best equipment the Academy had, using it to empower their mages.

"Valerie escaped," Delita said. "With letters written to the cultists that proved the scale of the plot...and their intent." He looked to Goltanna. "The Baron first became aware of the plot when a letter arrived from Annabel Iphis of the Lionsguard, alerting him to the plot. That is why he moved with such haste to confront the Ebon Eye. With the city of Zeltennia threatened by powerful mages, you would have to focus a considerable portion of your forces here. That made it easier for the Largs to set the stage against you. Uprisings through the kingdom, weakening your power and those of your supporters, rendering you vulnerable to traitors, spies, and assassins."

"Ridiculous," scoffed Chancellor Glevanne. "I will not pretend Queen Louveria is some bastion of reason, but she cannot both be madwoman and a cunning spymaster."

"She doesn't need to be," Delita countered. "She has Dycedarg Beoulve."

"And what would you know of Dycedarg Beoulve?" the Chancellor retorted.

Delita stared at the Chancellor in disbelief. "I thought you knew who I was?" he asked.

"How would I know such a thing?" the Chancellor growled.

Delita straighted. "My apologies, my lord. My name is Delita Heiral. I was raised alongside Dycedarg and Zalbaag, as a ward of House Beoulve."

Silence in the room. Cid looked between the red-headed young man with the burnt cheek and his son, whose eyes were squinted. Delita Heiral...he'd heard that name before. Where? From official reports?

"You were raised among the Beoulves?" the Bishop said at last, his voice reedy with disbelief.

"I was, my lord," Delita said. "I have seen firsthand the fruits of Dycedarg's treachery...and of his brother's willingness to acquiesce to it, for the good of the Hokuten." Delita raised a hand to his scar-mottled cheek. "For this reason did the Baron recruit me. His suspicions were fixed upon the Hokuten, even before he received Dame Iphis' letter alerting him to his hand in the scheme. He wanted someone who knew how they thought."

"Perhaps too well!" the Chancellor exclaimed. "How are we to trust a ward of House Beoulve?"

"You go too far!" cried Ovelia, rising to her feet, her eyes blazing.

The Chancellor was visibly cowed. "Your Highness, please-"

"No!" she snapped. "A skeptical mind is all well and good, but this man saved me from the clutches of a royal plot! He took an arrow to shepherd me safely from our Hokuten pursuers. And you have the gall to question...!" She jabbed one finger at him like a spear. "You will hold your tongue!"

Silence in the room, heavy with tension. Cid's eyes flickered between the Princess and her protector. A ward of the Beoulves...now he remembered! Balbanes had written him about just this, hadn't he? He felt a stab of old pain—he missed his old friend. Even in the thick of the war, their respective obligations had taken them far apart. They'd tried to write as regularly as they were able, but the plague had put an end to that even before it had put an end to Balbanes himself. The last letter Cid had received, months before the war's end, had spoken of these new wards he'd taken...and of the bastards he'd naturalized.

And now this long-forgotten ward appeared, speaking accusations against the leaders of House Beoulve and the Hokuten.

But perhaps more interesting even than this ghost from his past as the behavior of the Princess Ovelia. Again, Cid was surprised at her vigor and awareness. She had always been a factor in the delicate negotiations of Ivalice, but her involvement was an afterthought—move here to placate this Church luminary, dangle the promise of a marriage alliance to this noble or that one to keep them complacent. He had not suspected she had such strength. He would be surprised if anyone had.

"It seems you have become close during your ordeal," Cid said, raising his voice so he would be heard throughout the room.

The Princess and Delita both looked towards him. Delita's face was calm, but Cid could not make sense of the emotions he saw in Ovelia's face, a complex medley that baffled his attempts to decipher them.

"Men pretending to be Nanten came to fight my guard," Ovelia said, with just the faintest tremor in her voice. "While they were distracted, assassins used the Ydoran sewage system to infiltrate the monastery and try for my head. If not for Delita, I would be dead. If it is improper to grow close to a protector who risks so much on your behalf, than I will be gladly be improper." She paused, and her face softened. In a much more girlish voice, she asked, "I...I had hoped for word of my Lionesses."

Cid glanced towards Olan, who stood at stiff attention. Goltanna nodded, and Olan said, "We know nothing, your Highness. They disappeared in pursuit of you."

Ovelia nodded, and closed her eyes. Her jaw clenched.

"The Nanten will keep our eyes open," Olan added. "As will all who call us friends."

Ovelia's eyes opened. She managed a wry half-smile. "I am grateful. You are...?"

"Olan Durai, your Highness," Olan said, bowing his head.

"My intelligence officer," Cid added. "And my son."

Ovelia's smile widened, and she glanced at Goltanna. "It seems your whole court is kind and competent." She shot a withering glance at Glevanne. "With some exceptions."

Goltanna shrugged, even though his eyes blazed with pleasure at the compliment. "The Saint has blessed me." Glevanne's face was pale, and he held his hands stiffly at his side as though he were fighting the urge to clench them into fists.

"But you spoke of great urgency," Goltanna prompted. "What news of this plot?"

Before Delita could speak, the doors at the far end of the hall creaked open. "Pardon the interruption, my lords-!" said one of the soldiers standing guard outside.

"Let me THROUGH!" shouted a coarse woman's voice, and there was a burst of air that flung the doors wide open and tossed the soldiers back. Cid was already halfway across the room, Excaligard in hand, ready to cut down whatever mage dared assault his liege lord: Olan was a step behind him, both hands glowing with his luminescent own magic. But to his surprise, Delita was a step ahead of both of them.

"Valerie!" he called. "Calm yourself!"

"I will not!" she answered, and Cid had to admit she cut an imposing figure; runes gleamed upon her clothes, and wind billowed off her body, stirring the tapestries on the walls and sending her golden hair dancing in the breeze. She had a leather sheaf beneath her arm. "Not when the traitor stands in this hall!"

"Traitor?" Goltanna exclaimed.

"Those are my effects!" Glevanne shrieked in outrage.

Valerie, standing imposing in the doorway, took a step forward. "So you admit it!"

"CALM YOURSELVES!" thundered the Bishop, and so surprised was Cid to hear the meek, conniving man speak with such authority that he actually slowed, and risked a glance over his shoulder. The Biscop was clutching at his staff. "Tempers run high!" he said. "But we cannot afford mistakes!" He pointed with his staff. "Valerie Amfra! Cease this display at once!"

Valerie paled, and the magic died away. The soldiers around her slowly retook their feet, weapons in hand. Cid moved a little closer to her, ready to cut through any spell she might assail him with.

"Knights!" cried Glevanne. "Remove this assassin to the dungeons!"

"A moment, Chancellor," the Bishop said, quietly with the same surprising authority. "I would hear what she has to say. Would you not, my lord?"

Cid looked over his shoulder to find Goltanna contemplating the messy scene at the end of this throne room. He seemed uncertain, until Ovelia rested a hand upon his wrist. "Cousin," she said, just loudly enough to be heard. "I owe my survival as much to her as to Delita."

That seemed to decide Goltanna: his face steadied, and he said in a clipped voice, "You may speak, Valerie Amfra. But speak quickly."

Valerie nodded. "I apologize for my temper, my lords," she said. "But I could not stand by and do nothing, not again. My friends and teachers were..." Valerie closed her eyes. "Were slaughtered, to keep these secrets. I will not stand by and let it happen again."

"You found the proof?" Delita said.

Valerie nodded, and lifted her eyes to Goltanna. "When I escaped the Zeltennia ruins, I was able to lay hands upon the private correspondence of one of the cult's leaders, who was made aware of several uprisings across Ivalice _before_ they happened. That included the note about Orbonne-"

"Which is what warned us of the plot against the Princess," Delita added. "Between the death of a Lionsguard warning us of Dycedarg's involvement, and these interlinked outbreaks of violence, we had proof that this plot reached high into the echelons of the Hokuten..." He searched Valerie's face.

Valerie nodded. "Annabel Iphis passed on many documents that she found at the cost of her life, including this." She reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled letter. "This unsigned note was found in Prince Larg's personal correspondence, outlining the lamentable weaknesses of several Nanten garrisons, particularly in their bookkeeping" She held up the leather folder with her other hand. "I hope you will forgive my impertinence, but I took the liberty of comparing it with the Chancellor's personal correspondence."

Utter silence in the hall. Glevanne's face was as white as a corpse.

"You are implying-" the Bishop said, and his authority was gone, his voice cracking like a pubescent boy's. "You are-"

"You're sure?" Ovelia asked, and her voice was racked with anxiety but somehow still firm, afraid and yet resolute.

"There can be no doubt," Valerie answered.

Ovelia turned her gaze upon the Chancellor. "I see," she said. "So for what did you sell out your liege lord?"

"This...this is madness," whispered the Chancellor. "We have only your word the letter exists-"

"I am more than happy to show you all," Valerie said.

"I...I manage many of the affairs of Zeltennia," the Chancellor continued, a little frantically. "And the Hokuten are allies of old, surely I cannot be blamed for official business-"

"If the business is so official, why is the note unsigned?" asked Ovelia. "And why would you provide the exact information that Larg would need to pretend the men who tried to take my life were Nanten soldiers?"

"This is an outrage!" breathed the Chancellor, though he seemed closer to sobbing than shouting. "You have no proof you have no-"

"We have proof enough," Ovelia said. "Delita?"

"Your Highness?" Delita said, straightening up.

"Execute the traitor."

Without hesitation, Delita moved across the room—again, faster than Cid would have credited. One of the soldiers nearer the throne reached out to stop him; barely looking at him, Delita pivoted, planted his foot in the knight's belly and knocked him to the floor while pulling his sheathed sword from his side.

"No!" the Chancellor shouted. "You cannot-"

But his words were interrupted by the sword that sliced across his throat. Blood poured down from the ragged wound, and soaked the Chancellor's white robes. He gasped, blinked, reached out one feeble hand, and fell lifeless to the floor.

There was silence in the room. Cid stared at the tableau—the one-time ward of House Beoulve with stolen sword in hand, the dead (traitorous?) Chancellor at his feet, the Princess who had given the order standing regal on the dais. He did not know what he was supposed to do.

"What did you do?" the Bishop whispered, his back pressed against the stone wall.

Ovelia shot an imperious glance towards the Bishop. "You will forgive me if I do not waste time on civilities that were not extended me—and, I assure you, would not have been extended my cousin."

Goltanna did not speak. His eyes were fixed upon the Chancellor's crumpled form.

"My dear cousin," Ovelia said, and took Goltanna's hand. Then she fell to her knees in front of him, her forehead pressed against his fingers.

Gasps around the room. Goltanna started from his reverie, and struggled weakly to pull her to her feet. "Your Highness! Please, this is unseemly, you should not-"

"You have given me safe haven from my enemies," Ovelia whispered, resisting his attempts to pull her upright. "You have behaved with honor, for all the traps they weave for you. As they turn your court against you." She lifted her eyes to him, shining with emotion. "I cannot imagine what you have faced, with the accusations laid at your feet."

"Your Highness..." Goltanna breathed.

"But I must ask more of you," she said. "I have no army of my own. This false queen, this poisoner of rightful kings and this abuser of righteous men...she has tried her best to see me dead. And I swear, cousin, if by my death I could buy peace for Ivalice, I would, but...but I fear my dying would only be the start. She will not be content to see me put to the sword. She will not rest until any who might threaten her—any who might stand for Ivalice, rather than for her—are done away with."

Goltanna no longer tried to pull Ovelia to her feet. His red-brown eyes seemed very strange, glinting with a light Cid didn't recognize.

"Cousin," Ovelia said. "I would protect Ivalice. But I cannot do it alone."

Goltanna fell to his knees at once. There were gasps around the room—Cid was surprised to find he had gasped as well. He did not recall ever seeing Goltanna kneel, except in prayer.

"Your High-" he began, and then broke off, shaking his head. "No," he whispered. "I use the title your usurper has inflicted upon you. Your _Majesty._ "

Something cracked inside Cid then. He felt that crack echoing across the clouds of tension that had engulfed Bethla Garrison. He felt it as though thunder had rumbled on the horizon.

Your Majesty. In those words were war.

"Olan," Cid said under his breath.

"You will need our fastest messengers," Olan replied quietly. "I will go."

He hurried from the chamber without pausing to ask for anyone's permission. Cid doubted Goltanna would notice this breach of protocol; he was still speaking to the Princess-

"-I confess I myself have been deluded by the usurper. I knew she was an impetuous creature, but to sink to such vile deeds..." Goltanna shook his head again. "To turn my own Chancellor against me, to instigate revolution and violence that would make us remember the Death Corps with fondness...I do not believe I was capable of imagining the depths to which she would sink. But now that I know, I fear not for my own life. I fear the depths to which she would take Ivalice, if we allow her to sit the throne."

He stood up, and pulled the Princes—no, not any longer, the words Majesty had changed everything—pulled the _Queen_ to her feet. "I will fight for the rightful Queen of Ivalice, against the assassin who would see her dead!" Goltanna roared, and that was the voice of the general who had commanded armies in the widest and bloodiest war on Ivalician soil since the time of the Ydorans. "Are you with me?"

Shocked, battered, and bewildered as they were, the soldiers and officials in the room knew the call to action when they heard it. More than that, they longed for it—even Cid wanted the clarity of purpose to guide him from his shock, doubt, and confusion.

"YES, MY LORD!" the howled, in one great voice.

The echoes of the shout had not quite died when Cid stepped towards the Duke. "My lord!" Cid said. "If we are to march, I must make ready-"

"Go, Count Orlandeau!" Goltanna answered, and Cid turned and went, sheathing Excaligard as he hurried to the still-open wooden doors.

"Mage Valerie," Goltanna said behind him. "Please join us. I must know the scale of this plot."

Cid was just passing the mage when Goltanna called out to her; Cid glanced over his shoulder as she hurried forwards, joining Delita and the Bishop as they ascended the dais to speak in low voices with the new Queen of Ivalice and Duke Goltanna. All of them wreathed in questions: how had a ward of House Beoulve joined forces with this mage and this Princess? What had they faced, in the weeks since this attack on Orbonne?

With an effort, he turned away from them. Whatever they were speaking of could wait for another day.

Olan was waiting for him just outside, pages, squires, and messengers pressed against the walls, waiting for their orders. "The bulk of our forces are here, and we have no time to worry about supply trains," Cid said quickly. "We must take Lesalia before they even know we march. Send our fastest riders to every town and garrison around the route, to have supplies ready and waiting for us on arrival. And send a messenger to the Marquis, as well; he must march on Gallione, to distract the Hokuten."

The pages moved, one way or another; Cid was already hurrying down to the officer's wing of the fortress, to prepare his best advisors. "We need more information," Cid continued, as Olan fell into step beside him. "On Glevanne's correspondence, on Hokuten spies, on...everything." He looked at Olan. "I can trust no one else."

"I know," Olan said, and hurried away to make ready. Cid was not sure what now ticked in his son's mind, but he was sure it was an insight only he was capable of, and he would let Cid know what he required to confirm it.

And for a moment, Cid allowed himself to freeze. He allowed himself to feel the sheer, stunning weight of what had just happened, and what was to come. The Chancellor's treachery (and his so-swfit execution) would necessitate a reshuffling of the power structures of all eastern Ivalice—not to mention the death of Grimms and the possible hand of the Hokuten in the uprisings and revolts devouring the kingdom. And now the two great armies of Ivalice, who had together turned back the Ordallians and preserved Ivalice from destruction, would tear each other apart.

Was there no stopping it? He had fought alongside Dycedarg, Zalbaag, and Bestrald; he knew first-hand many of the generals and officers who would face him in battle. Did he really have to fight the men Balbanes Beoulve had trained and led? Did he really have to kill men he had once considered comrades?

In the days before the Heavenly Knight and the Thunder God had become soldiers of renown, the Gariland Academy had not been the gold standard for training—merely one of many sources from which the regional lords could draw their potential commanders. Cid himself had been a squire in the Nanten. He had met the recently-graduated Balbanes when the two of them had been messengers on the frontlines of Zelmonia, and had to take up arms against and Ordallian incursion. Swords in hand, surrounded by Ordallian men-at-arms, they had fought together with all their strength.

Hokuten and Nanten, united for the good of Ivalice. Was that not the way it was supposed to be? Did not the legends of the Zodiac Braves make clear that the separations between the so-called kingdoms were illusory, their borders the creation of the ambitious who sought to rise at the expense of their rivals?

Cid reached into the folds of his cloak, and felt for the treasure of House Orlandeau—the gleaming Libra Stone, passed onto them by the founder of their house, who might well have been a disciple of Ajora (or might just as well have been an Ydoran executioner: he had heard it both ways, over his long years). He clutched at its solid, potent weight, and for a moment dreamed that he could be a Brave, and find some other way. That he could be the hero he'd believed in, when he and Balbanes had stood back-to-back, surrounded by foes, trusting in each other in spite of their different backgrounds.

But then the moment passed, and Cid was off and moving again. His soldiers gathered now to prepare a lightning strike against the capital of his kingdom—against a Queen who might well have poisoned her husband and arranged for the death of her adopted daughter. He did not know who he could trust, or how far this conspiracy might extend. But he hoped that if he acted decisively—if he, like Balbanes, refused to turn away from the horror, but plunged straight through, in the hopes of saving who he could—that this grim and awful war might end in a single strike.

Hoped, and prayed, and doubted, as he strode through the halls of Bethla Garrison. Hoped, and prayed, and doubted, because he feared that no matter how strong the soldier, how weak the soul, or how godly the man, they would all be in danger soon enough.

 _...Ivalice could not live beneath the rule of two opposing Queens, and the ambitions of the powerful made compromise impossible. The White Lions hoped to hold onto the throne they'd claimed: the Black hoped to depose his great enemy, and seize the reins of power with which his foes had threatened him. So the Nanten marched on Lesalia, confident in their righteous rage; so the Hokuten stood fast, to defend the righteous order; so the great armies of Ivalice clashed mere years after they had stood shoulder-to-shoulder against the Ordallian menace, confident in their righteous cause._

 _Ten thousand died upon the first day. Another ten thousand all the next. And as war spread across Ivalice, all the powers of the kingdom leapt into the fray on one side or another, and fanned the flames still higher._

 _In the shadows, the conspirators who'd arranged for an inconvenient princess to stay on history's stage watched with greedy eyes as the war spread. Some hoped to see the Lions so exhausted by their War that they might be tamed—or killed outright. But others, unknown even in the ranks of the conspirators, nursed a darker hope. Others hoped the war would never end, to properly baptize the Bloody Angel they served._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "The Zodiac Brave Conspiracy"_


	63. Chapter 62: Purposeless

(Thank you for your patience, everyone! We're finally into Part 3, and should be able to keep up weekly updates for at least the next several months. And if you check out quickascanbe dot com, there's plenty more to keep you busy while you wait)

 **Part 3: In Search of Honor**

 **Chapter 62: Purposeless**

 _The war should have ended with the first strike. Count Orlandeau led a devastating raid on Lesalia, cutting straight through the patchy royal defenses, capturing Queen Louveria, and retreating behind the Nanten lines, which the Hokuten could not break. But even before they had returned to Bethla Garrison, young Prince Orinus (now just shy of his sixth birthday) was coronated King of Ivalice, and his regent, Prince Larg, declared the Nanten traitors. The Nanten, in turn, claimed Orinus' coronation an illegal act, and all who followed him traitors themselves. The Queen whose tyranny had set the war in motion no long held the reins in power, but like a boulder pushed from atop a mountain, the war continued to escalate, rushing to claim more victims down below..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Lecture to Freshman History Students and the Royal College"_

"He can't breathe!" hollered one of the nurses, wild-eyed and pale.

"Let me through," Ramza said, drawing the little knife from its sheathe on his arm. He cut along the scar on his palm and hurried to the patient's side, cleaning the blade as he went. The patient was a young man from one battlefield or another, burned and scarred, gasping for air as blood-flecked spittle dribbled down his cracked lips. Ramza grabbed at one of the boy's his hands, which nearly slipped away from him—the boy had only two fingers remaining. He cut, swift and true, across the young man's palm, dabbed one finger in his blood, mixed it with his own, and quickly sketched a rune upon the young man's bare chest. It glowed briefly, and Ramza felt a little weakness in his legs, a little dizziness in his head, but the boy's breathing eased almost at once..

"Thanks, Ivan," the nurse sighed, brushing back her hair.

"No problem, Rose," Ramza answered, but before he could say more someone else was shouting down the hall of this overcrowded hospital, and Ramza raced off towards the latest crisis. So passed his day—casting simple spells to buy the doctors and Healers time to work, applying poultices and bandages, helping move crates of supplies. At day's end, he was weary as always, and the pouch of gil he held in his hand felt too light for the work he'd done.

He exited the hospital—a stately wooden building that had belonged to some minor noble in a bygone age—and headed down one of Gariland's wide cobblestone streets, ducking his head against the cold wind as it rustled in the bare branches of the trees. Soon, cobblestone turned to dirt and gravel as Ramza followed a winding rut through tall grass. He heard the distant sound of a hammer upon a nail before Daravon's squat, sunken estate swam into view—a wide, once-white building with signs of disrepair, cracked paint and missing shingles, ivy grown wild upon one wing.

"Ramza!" someone shouted from behind him. Ramza looked over his shoulder to find Alicia hurrying after him, wearing a prim dress of faded pink fabric. She had a bag slung across her narrow shoulders. As he watched, she reached up to adjust the strap. The three fingers that remained on her right hand pulled with thoughtless dexterity. "Any sign of Lav?"

"You know they always keep her later than me," Ramza answered, pausing to let Alicia catch up. "How were lessons?"

Alicia's face contorted into a grimace. "Bah," she spat. "Ain't no one buying Gariland neutrality these days. All I got is rich kids learning a few tricks."

"No one else?" Ramza asked.

Alicia sighed. "A few kids who came her on scholarship. But with the Academy closed down..." She patted her bag and managed a weak smile. "Grabbed us some more gear, though."

"Nice of your old professors."

"Not as a nice as yours," Alicia said, nodding towards Daravon's manse.

They had kept walking towards the manor as they talked: now they were close enough to spy the source of the hammering. Besrodio Bunansa was hammering boards and shingles into place over the worst parts of the roof. He waved at them absently as they came close. "Lavian back yet?" he called, his voice a little clumsy through the nails between his teeth.

"What do you think?" Alicia asked.

"Too bad. I've done some more work on her staff. And on your gloves."

"Thank you, Mister Bunansa."

Besrodio chuckled. "I thought I had asked you not to call me that?"

Ramza shrugged. Besrodio waved them on, and Ramza and Alicia made their way inside the manor. They shied away from the ancient wooden doors whose old hinges were so unreliable and instead took the kitchen door, unlocking it with one of their rusty keys. Daravon was already within, coaxing a fire from an old rune on his oven, humming to himself as onions sizzled on an iron skillet.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, smiling through his trim silver-black beard. "You're the first ones back!"

Hardly unusual—the others' jobs tended to keep them away for far longer. Wordlessly, Ramza and Radia both dropped their pouches of gil on the wooden table that occupied that middle of the cramped kitchen, and made an effort to help Daravon cook. As always, Daravon waved them away, sipping from a glass of whiskey as he did so. They protested, but only half-heartedly—in the six months they'd been here, Daravon had only accepted their help in preparing dinner twice.

But truth be told, Ramza was little troubled by pangs of guilt. He was as eager as Alicia to get down to the training room.

The rest of the manse might be a little worn and decrepit, but the training room that occupied the entire basement level was immaculately maintained. Ramza had never seen its like. There were echoes of some of the sparring chambers at the Military Academy (reserved almost exclusively for specialist classes), and Alicia and Lavian said that it reminded them of some of the training rooms at the Magic Academy. It was a wide, high-ceilinged, rectangular room, with floors and walls of patterned stone. Each wide stone block upon the floor had carved upon it a large rune, while the walls and ceiling held rows upon rows of them. The smaller runes included some for light, but there were many others besides—runes of healing and strengthening, runes to subdue magics of various kinds. The runes upon the floor were far more specialized—some strengthened the body, while others weakened it; some amplified certain kinds of magic while restraining others; one particularly insidious rune magnified gravity itself within its space, making it harder to stand, much less act.

Near the door was a wide table that Mustadio and Besrodio both used as a workspace when they had time. Lavian's new staff sat upon it—this one a quarterstaff that Besrodio was slowly modifying, inscribing the runes she carved with the materials Alicia could get from around town and from her old instructors. Alicia pulled out the little pouches of materials from her pack and laid them out in the corresponding places on the table. While she did, Ramza grabbed the gloves Besrodio had made for him: care-worn and dexterous, made of a fine thin leather that had seen better days. Along the wrists were runes of many kinds, carefully crafted. The left was principally for attacking: the right for healing. Ramza flexed his fingers in each.

"Ready?" Alicia asked, picking up both her scepter and Lavian's staff.

Ramza nodded, and they stepped into separate squares. Ramza's weakened any destructive spells cast within it: Alicia's strengthened defensive spells. He lifted his left hand, touched the rune, and unleashed fire. Within the square, his magic thickened like syrup: familiar as he was now with the act of converting magic to fire, it still took effort, and the resulting flares and flames were embers and faded shadows.

They rotated back and forth between the two squares, testing themselves with casting spells of both kinds. By now, Ramza was much more comfortable with lightning, and had even added a rune for wind (easy enough to create, though much more difficult to create with such force to have any effect). Ice gave him the most trouble: Alicia had explained that forms of energy were easy, but physical objects much more difficult. She had demonstrated by having him first move water, and then try and _create_ water. The first was easy, mere force applied in one direction or another; the latter left him kneeling on the floor, gasping for breath.

"Ice spells are tricky," Alicia admitted, as they lounged back against the work table, passing a canteen of water back and forth between them, both still a little hard of breath. "But useful. Harder to block. Solids are always harder, even if they're more predictable. It's an energy thing."

"How do you mean?" Ramza asked.

"Well..." Alicia pursed her lips thoughtfully. "Fire and lightning are basically raw conversion: you just turn your magic to that energy, and unleash. But to do ice spells, you gotta do a couple things at once. Gotta create the water, and then freeze it. And that means expending energy to extract energy."

Ramza's brow furrowed. "I don't follow."

"Water boils when you heat it, right?" Alicia said. "When you _add_ energy. Ice is created when you take away heat—subtracting energy."

Ramza nodded. "And in this case, our magic is the energy."

"Exactly."

A thought occurred to Ramza. "So..so what if I used the Draining Blade while creating the water?" he asked. "Suck heat in as I create?"

"Wouldn't work."

"Why not?"

Alicia smiled patiently. "It's a good thought, Ramza. But the Draining Blade works on _magic_. You can't just suck in heat. If it's heat created by an enemy, sure—at its core that's magic, and wants to be converted back." She considered for a moment. "Think of it this way. If I shot fire at you, you might be able to drain it, right? But you couldn't stick your sword into a fire and absorb _those_ flames."

Ramza nodded, feeling a little dumb. She patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry about it. It's a good thought, but at a certain point you're running up against the fundamental laws of the universe."

"Resting already?"Agrias called.

Ramza and Alicia jerked away from the table as though it had shocked them. Agrias was striding across the room, wearing the ill-fitting leather armor Daravon had scrounged up for her. The old scars from their battles in Lionel gleamed all across her body.

"Time enough to talk, time enough to work," Agrias said, shedding the rough iron sword she wore when guarding merchants and grabbing for her Ydoran blade.

With Alicia, training was studious and intellectual: they tried to learn new techniques together, and to perfect what they already knew. With Agrias, training was a grueling ordeal, fast and brutal. Pivoting from one square to the next, forcing Ramza to match her blow for blow, to teach her how to resist having her field drained; forcing Alicia to raise shields against her, or cast magic that she would knock aside with a flick of her shimmering sword.

Agrias talked very little these days. She worked for whatever merchant would have her, for whatever cause they would hire her. And when her work was come, down she'd come to the training room, to work herself into a lather.

"No!" Agrias shouted, trying to teach Ramza the basics of the Bursting Sword. His head swam dizzily, and he swayed on his feet. The Bursting Sword was so much more difficult than ordinary magic, supercharging your field into a burst of raw shattering force directed along the edge of a blade. "You keep trying to cast!" Agrias said fiercely. "But our discipline is not a mage's discipline! You must learn to channel your energy along the edge of your sword. Again!"

And so Ramza came at her again, swinging his sword and feeling it with his will, hurled through the air as Agrias swatted him aside like a bug. "Again!" she shouted, and Ramza rose without complaint and obeyed.

They needed to exhaust themselves. It was the only thing keeping them sane.

It had been an agonizingly slow journey across Lionel, dodging patrols of knights and mercenaries hunting for the heretics who had assassinated the beloved Cardinal. They were exhausted, wounded, and demoralized: even their victory over the monster the Cardinal had become could not assuage their fears, their doubt, their confusion. So Agrias had stewed and fumed, limping along and refusing to let Lavian spare more than then simplest spells to ease her wounds; so Lavian was pale and exhausted, stumbling on her feet when she wasn't crying over Alicia's missing fingers; so Radia was terse and silent, not speaking to any of them.

And that was before they reached Zaland, and heard the news. Of the great battle to the north, the Nanten marching in defense of Ovelia, rightful Queen of Ivalice.

They had all known that retrieving Ovelia was already a feeble hope. They did not know where she had been taken, or who might have her, and between them stood the power of the Church and the sudden, impossible danger of the unknown Lucavi. But how could they rescue a rightful Queen? How could they even reach her, with an army to protect her in a country at war?

So they had gone to the only safe haven Ramza could think of. And, by luck or by providence, found Besrodio Bunansa already waiting for them at Daravon's Estate.

Lavian came in halfway through training, and she and Alicia left the room together. If Agrias noticed, she gave no sign. An hour later, as Ramza guzzled water and sagged against a wall, Mustadio entered the room.

"Looks like things are going well," Mustadio said, eyeing the sweat-drenched pair.

"Still got energy left, if we need to whip you into shape," Agrias growled, pointing with her sword.

Mustadio shook his head. His broad forehead was marked with soot, his fingers smudged with grease. "Working on the caravan engines keeps me fit enough. Daravon says food's ready."

They ate a quiet dinner in the dining room. The table was cracked, and one or two of the chairs wobbled, but it was no longer thick with dust. Between themselves, Ramza and his friends had managed that much. Daravon was the only one who spoke with any enthusiasm, asking them questions about their day. Ramza answered automatically, his ears pricked for the sound of the door.

He would not hear it until much later in the night, sitting in a chair alone by the fireplace with a candle on the table next to him. He was trying and failing to read the book Daravon had loaned him, half-dozing in the dark room, when the creaking of the door and the soft sound of footsteps reached him. He blinked awake, turned his head in time to see her, entering the room with a heavy chest in hand.

Radia stared at him. He stared back.

"How was it?" he asked, his voice low.

She shrugged. "No one's bothered it much. Then again, most people don't know about it."

"Anything good?"

"His gil," she said. "Some weapons. Some contacts. I burned the rest and locked the place up."

The little house upon the cliffside, where Gaffgarion had raised Radia, and where Radia had nursed Ramza back to health. The place where he'd transitioned from his life as a noble son who dreamed of never killing to his life as a mercenary who cut his bloodsoaked way across a dozen battlefields. Cut with such skill that even the man who'd trained him had fallen to his blade.

"Need a hand?" Ramza asked, as the months-old guilt crawled fresh up his throat.

Radia hesitated. It seemed almost as though she'd flinched when he'd asked the question. No, that wasn't it: it was though she were flinching every time he spoke.

"Do you hate me?" Ramza asked.

Radia shook her head at once. "You know I don't."

"Do I?" He hated the weakness in his voice, but couldn't help it. The feeling inside him, thick and hot in his throat so it felt like it was choking him, overrode any defense he could raise against it.

Radia's eyes were somber. "I thought so."

What was he supposed to say? They both knew what lay between them. His sword had killed her father. He had not tried to spare him, to weaken him, to capture him. He had not believed it possible. And perhaps more than that, he had been desperate not to die himself.

"I know there's nothing else you could've done," Radia said softly. His head jerked towards her, but she wasn't looking at him. "I know he was trying to kill you, and even if you'd tried-" She shook her head. "We both know how dangerous he is." She winced. "Was."

Right. The man who had trained Ramza, had led him here and there across Ivalice. The man who had turned against him, with murder in his eyes. The man Ramza had killed, just like he'd killed Argus.

"I know that," she said. "But it doesn't change how I..." She shook her head again, looked away and marched past him, towards the stairs.

The feeling in his throat, smothering like humidity inside him, like a storm that threatened to blow him apart from the inside, seemed to crack with unexpected thunder. He stumbled out of the chair, pushed his way through the glass doors that led onto the little balcony. The moon was dark, the sky cloudy: he could not see the tall grass, or the distant trees. His memory filled in the details, but who knew how accurate his memory was? In his memory, he had stood triumphant with his friends, victorious and certain, ignorant of what was to come.

So what would tomorrow bring? More work, more injured and sick and dead, too little money and too little progress and nothing to gain. The days churned on endlessly, pointlessly, purposelessly.

Ramza buried his face in his hands.


	64. Chapter 63: Casualties

(Thank you for reading! The story updates every Wednesday, and if you're hungry for content in the meantime, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 63: Casualties**

Ivalice bled, and Count Cidolfas Orlandeau grieved for it.

He grieved as he fought, cleaving a path through the companies that struggled to oppose him—companies of Ivalican soldiers from Gallione and Lesalia, the soldiers who had been the indispensable reserve on which Zeltennia and Limberry had once depended when foreign invaders had threatened them. He grieved as he reviewed troop dispositions and casualty reports, outlining all the souls who fought for their rightful queen, and had suffered pain and death in her defense. He grieved when he saw the herds of battered refugees, drifting like ghosts from the burnt ruins of their homes, trudging across scorched and trampled fields.

He was still grieving when he returned to Bethla Garrison, his hood pulled up against the cold, pounding rain, the hem of his cloak and the soles of his boots heavy with mud. He patted his chocobo's damp neck and allowed it be led away by a soldier. For a moment, he allowed the rain to scour him, and lifted his head to stare at the great bulk of Bethla Garrison. The Ydorans had carved it from a mountain, so it towered high above him, slanting slowly to the top. Behind it, a fertile plateau fed by a dammed lake offered a dependable source of food and water, so none could ever stave out the Nanten.

There was a time when the sight of Bethla Garrison had reassured him. The only dependable way for an army to reach the fortress was a winding canyon path that any half-awake defender could turn unassailable. And this deadly road did not even run straight to the fort: first it encountered the tall southern gate, solid stone half as tall as the fort itself. And what army could try for the northern road? The only paths that weren't winding mountain ruts lay across the inhospitable Bethla Wastes. The fort radiated solidity; its heavy mountain strength fell eternal and untouchable.

But now those same qualities made Cid sick with guilt. The fort's impregnability isolated it from the hell outside its walls. What did the suffering of faraway souls matter, when the seat of the Nanten would go untouched? Never mind that these were the citizens of Ivalice, who suffered over and over again in riots, rebellions, and war.

Cid wandered inside, intentionally refusing to clean his boots. He wanted the mud to be slathered across the fort's floors. And when much of the mud on his boots had been left behind, he deliberately shook out his cloak, splattering the walls. He wanted something of the muck that Ivalice was deluded with to be felt here, in the halls of power.

How was this war allowed to continue? They had captured the Usurper Queen in the first bold strike of the war. Cid had been proud of his Nanten then, cutting their way with speed and discipline, plowing through the sparse lines and patrols that opposed them. When they reached Lesalia's strong walls, his mages blew a hole in their side, and the swarmed towards the Lion's Den, cutting down all who stood in their way.

Even now, the Queen languished in dungeons far below his feet, and the true Queen sat enthroned in Zeltennia. So how could this war still consume so many lives?

He knew the official answer: that the Hokuten were puppets manipulated by Bestrald Larg, fighting in the name of a toddler King to free the Usurper Queen so she could continue her reign of tyranny. He wondered what the Hokuten said of them: were they Nanten puppets in service to a treacherous princess, opposed by the rightful King and his noble uncle, as they strove to rescue the Queen-Mother who had been so unlawfully taken from her seat of power?

Why did no one see the absurdity of it all? Orinus was barely six years of age, and followed the "advice" of his regent, Prince Larg, in everything. And though Goltanna fought in the name of Queen Ovelia, she had "retreated" to the safety of Zeltennia Castle—where, conveniently, she could not contravene the orders and aims of her cousin and general.

Half-treason, these thoughts, but Cid was too weary to care. Weary of war against friends, weary of the ambitions of the powerful, and weary with grief for the suffering across Ivalice.

"Count Orlandeau."

Cid looked up as Delita Heiral rounded a corner, a sheaf of papers under one arm. Like Cid, he wore armor and a sword upon his hip, though all his gear was considerably cleaner than what Cid wore. Each piece of dark red and dull gold had been polished to a brilliant shine, gleaming in the runelights on the walls. He had trimmed his clay-red hair, and his dark eyes were respectful. Yet in spite of the fine figure he cut, Cid felt a stab of anger. This boy and the Princess he brought with them had started all this trouble. Without them...

Without them, a Queen who imprisoned on a whim and deployed assassins against her rivals would still sit the throne. The war had always been coming. It was not Delita's fault that his small spark had finally set all the gathered tinder ablaze.

"Ser Heiral," Cid answered. "How fare the Black Sheep?"

Delita offered a small smile. "They care for themselves." He inclined his head towards the near hallway intersection, and they headed down together. Cid did admire what young Heiral had done with the coffers and contacts of the Sheep when he was made their head in honor of his service. Instead of trying to rebuild their order into the semi-mercenary army Grimms had built, Delita had organized them into loose cells that acted as something like a network of sponsored bandits. Cid had feared that such groups would commit their share of atrocities, but Olan's reports painted them as a rather disciplined force that could be very effective at disrupting their enemies and provoked little outrage among the populace.

"I remain impressed," Cid said. "I know you attended Gariland, but your skill at command outstrips men several times your senior."

Delita shook his head. "Only good fortune, Count," Delita said. "I depend upon the patriotism of men who would protect Ivalice from the abuses of the powerful."

Cid smiled a little. "You sound like Balbanes."

Delita inclined his head slightly. "You could pay me no higher compliment."

"Is that young Ser Heiral I hear?" called the light, musical voice of Marquis Elmdor. He rounded the corner, his silver hair braided back behind his blue tunic. Unlike Delita and Cid, he had foregone his armor. A pity, too: during the war, Elmdor had specially ordered a set of red-and-black armor designed to make him look as fearsome and terrible as possible, a jibe at the enemies who called him the Silver Demon.

"It is, Marquis," Delita said, bowing a little.

"I thought I once told you to call me Messam?" the Marquis asked.

"You did, my lord," Delita said. "But I must maintain a sense of propriety."

"False modesty ill becomes you, Ser Heiral," the Marquis said.

Delita's eyebrows arched. "The Silver Demon speaks to me about a pretense of humility?"

The Marquis chuckled, but Cid felt something faintly nauseous stirring in his chest. He had been a soldier all his life—he well understood the need for humor in dark times. But this seemed altogether too light and breezy. These men were both commanders of armed forces, who took the field as often as he did. How could they be so casual now, when pointless violence stalked their days?

"Is something the matter, Count Orlandeau?" Delita asked.

Cid shook his head. "No," he said, and marched towards the Council Chambers. Elmdor fell into step behind him; Delita trailed a step behind.

Unlike the throne room several floors above, the Council Chambers were a much more intimate setting, dominated by a dark wooden table that almost touched the polished stone walls. Goltanna sat at his customary place in a high-backed chair at one end of the table, with the Bishop and Viscount Blanche hunched over him, all talking in hushed voices. Precisely in the middle of the table, the dark-skinned Baron Bolminas fumbled with his papers, trying to look busy, unable to hide his irritation at being excluded from the secrets of the Bishop, the Duke, and the Viscount.

"Ah, my commanders return!" Goltanna exclaimed, his red/brown eyes flickering up to them. "Sit, sit!"

"My lord-" the Viscount began, unable to hide his irritation.

"We will discuss everything, Blanche," Goltanna said, with iron in his voice. "Sit."

Blanche bowed stiffly, and retreated down the table. Cid and the Bishop sat closest to Goltanna, at his left and right hands, respectively; Viscount Blanche and Marquis Elmdor took the far end of the table, while Delita sat directly across from the Baron.

"How goes the war?" Goltanna asked.

"Yes, tell us, Count," Blanche growled, his mouth curled into an ugly sneer so his silver goatee almost touched his chest. "How do your troops manages to fail, time and time again?"

"Blanche," Goltanna said warningly.

"If I may, my lord," Cid said, turning to face the Viscount. "We achieved our principle strategic objective within the first days of this war. Now we have settled into a war of attrition-"

"The cost was not so high when we faced Ordallia!" Blanche snapped.

"The cost was high for some of us, Viscount," Cid replied, and saw from the corner of his eye both Goltanna and Elmdor nodding.

Blanche visibly deflated, his eyes flickering to the others. "I...I meant no offense. I only meant that we...we must seek a resolution to this conflict."

"Yes, Blanche, we are all agreed on that," grunted Goltanna. "Count Orlandeau, how do our troops fare?"

Cid straightened his chair. "They are the same Nanten that held back Ordallia, my lord. The Hokuten are spread too thin to punch through anywhere."

Goltanna slapped the table. "Good man, good man."

"But it has been costly, my lord," Cid continued, remembering the sight of the young men and women bleeding in the medical tents, crying softly in the dark. Remembering the bloody, slack bodies piled high upon the carts. "The Hokuten outnumber us. We have lost nearly thirty thousand men since the Hokuten attempt on Bethla Garrison, and have seen twice as many wounded."

"But the Hokuten cannot hold forever," the Bishop put in, smiling thinly. "My friends to the east report that the flooding in Gallione thanks to the fall rains, combined with an early frost in some regions, has wreaked havoc on the harvest. The Hokuten will starve."

"And we will not?" Elmdor asked dryly.

Goltanna looked at Elmdor in surprise. "The drought is that bad?"

Elmdor nodded grimly. "We've noticed definite expansion along the borders of the Wastes, and our harvests were poor already due to poor rainfall. I am sorry, my lord, but if you wish for me to continue to supply my own troops, I cannot spare any part of my stores. Even then, people are going to go hungry."

"Your people will not riot, will they?" asked Bolminas, in a faintly bored tone of voice. "We cannot afford it."

Elmdor's eyes flickered dismissively towards the Baron. "My people understand the need for this war."

"And what of yours, Viscount?" the Baron asked.

Blanche went white with fury. "You dare-"

"You come to us with complaints about having the battle lines drawn through your lands," the Baron replied ploddingly. "I assume there is unrest among your people, the same as there is unrest in Limberry. I simply wish to ascertain whether our situation may be as grim as the Hokuten's."

"How bad is the Hokuten situation?" Cid asked, fighting to quell a wriggling anxiety in the pit of his stomach.

It was Delita who answered him. "Reports are sketchy, but along the battlelines, many towns and villages have been occupied or burnt. They flee in many directions, but most make for Igros and Lesalia."

"How many?" Cid asked.

"I'm not sure," Delita said. "Thousands."

"Good!" Blanche declared. "Let Larg drown under the weight of their outrage! Let them revolt at his treatment, and call for their rightful Queen!"

Goltanna's lips pursed beneath his drooping mustache. "Count Orlandeau."

"My lord?" Cid said.

"Order your men to rebuff any refugees who approach. By force, if necessary."

A shock of cold surged across Cid's guts. "Are you sure, my lord?"

Goltanna nodded. "I did not realize the drought had so badly effected Limberry. Even if the Gallione harvests are worse than they seem, their stores of grain are probably twice ours." He massaged his broad forehead. "We will need to try and buy food elsewhere. Bishop, make arrangements to levy a new tax-"

Goltanna kept talking, but Cid barely heard him. Supplies running low, tens of thousands of refugees across the countryside displaced by needless war, a drought that exhausted the people of Limberry, and now Goltanna wanted to levy a new tax? Almost Cid could endure this, almost he could swallow his doubts and follow his orders, except Goltanna had also ordered him to rebuff these refugees—perhaps even execute them, if they pressed their luck.

"In the meantime, we will seek out allies and reinforcements," said Goltanna, as the gears in Cid's head ground painfully against one another. "Men and women who can be trusted to see they must follow the rightful Queen, rather than allow the tyranny of the Largs to continue through their puppet prince. Baron, where do we stand?"

The Baron started as Goltanna addressed him. His mouth worked for a few seconds before it managed to produce words. "Almost all who have forces have been committed to one side or another, my lord. Only the Khamja have yet to declare either way."

"Barinten, that slippery snake," sighed Goltanna. "Well, we'll have to prepare an envoy to him. If we offer him a portion of Leslia, he may be inclined to deal. Baron, you will-

But painful as it was, Cid's mind had followed its course, and over his years Cid had learned to eschew hesitation. Once you know what to do you, you act to do it, consequences be damned. "My lord," Cid said. "May I speak?"

Goltanna looked towards him, frowning. "What is it, Count?"

"Our military position is strong, but our logistical position is weak," Cid said. "The Hokuten stand in the same precarious place, especially if we are to turn back refugees. Would it not be wise to seek peace?"

Silence at the table. All eyes were fixed on Cid. Goltanna's face had set: it barely moved. His eyes searched Cid's face.

"Peace?" Blanche whispered. Cid barely looked at the Viscount—he mattered little enough here—but from the corner of his eye he could see fury contorting his pale face. "These criminals lay waste to my lands, and their proxies kill my son, and you speak of peace?"

The pain in Blanche's voice when he spoke of Baron Grimms drew Cid's eyes back to him. Blanche glared at him, and Cid stared steadily back. "I am sorry for you loss, Viscount," Cid said. "But people die in war. More fathers will lose more sons, and more sons fathers, and brothers sisters and sisters brothers and all of us people we love, if we continue an unnecessary war."

"Unnecessary?" Goltanna said mildly.

Cid's head swiveled back to face Goltanna. The Duke's face was still calm, but his eyes were feverishly bright. "You think the war is unnecessary, Count Orlandeau?"

Cid shook his head. "An assassin and a tyrant had seized power unlawfully. You did your duty, my lord, and rose to challenge her. But we hold her in the dungeons beneath this fortress. She is no danger to anyone"

"Her brother is," the Bishop pointed out.

"But his position, as you have said, is increasingly untenable!" Cid exclaimed. "His soldiers, likes ours, will not go unfed, and even before that the people of Ivalice will starve as their homes and fields are burned, and how long can they suffer this way before they turn against him? Before they turn against us?" He faced Goltanna again. "This war was necessary, my lord. But prolonging it might not be. Why not bring him to the table, and see if he will bargain?"

"Bargain with a man who shares his sister's crimes?" Elmdor asked, his tone acidic. "Who propped her up, and smoothed the way, and rebelled against the rightful Queen when Louveria saw justice?"

"If I may speak, my lords?" Delita asked.

Cid stared at Delita, who was looking at Goltanna. Goltanna inclined his head a fraction of an inch, and the young knight rose and faced Cid squarely. "I am of common stock, Count Orlandeau," he said. "Though I do not doubt your sympathy for the people, I assure you, your sympathy does not compare with my experience of their plight. I faced such hardship myself during the 50 Years' War."

"But you underestimate the treachery of the Largs," Delita continued, his eyes and voice hardening. "I fought against the Death Corps. I have already told the Marquis that the attempt on his life was made at their behest, frustrated only by the greed of their assassin and the disobedience of myself and my friends. And when they had taken the Death Corps, they used their expertise to foment the revolts we've seen spreading across the country—including the one that killed the Baron Grimms, who had begun to suspect their plot."

"The Largs cannot be trusted," Delita said, and his eyes were burning. "They will gladly come to the table, for a chance to survive. And if they survive, they will continue to spread their poison. You think the people suffer now?" He gestured wildly with one hand. "Let them continue to manipulate Ivalice to its own ends, and their suffering will be increased tenfold. We cannot bargain with traitors."

But at the bargaining table, the men on the other side of the table were almost always monsters and traitors—or had such people in their employ. No war was ever fought with noble means by men with clean hands. The Largs might indeed be worse than most, but it mattered little how bad they were. Goltanna's good intentions could hurt Ivalice just as much as Larg's treachery.

Cid said none of this aloud. He could see in the eyes of the men who sat at the table that Delita had reassured them of the righteousness of the cause—or, at the very least, given them a plausible reason to continue the conflict that stood to elevate them still further.

Goltanna rapped his knuckles on the table approvingly. "Well said, young Heiral!" He looked at Cid. "I understand your worries, Count Orlandeau. But as Ser Heiral says, an Ivalice where Bestrald Larg holds any power is an Ivalice that will suffer far worse than anything this war may bring them. If you wish to protect them, you had best focus on achieving a speedy end to the war."

Count Orlandeau nodded, conveying both his resignation and his determination. "As you command, my lord. I hope my words did not upset you."

Goltanna was gracious: his smile softened, and he said, "I share your worries, old friend. But we must see with clear eyes, as we did when we faced Ordallia."

Cid nodded, and took his seat. Goltanna turned his attention to Bolminas. "Baron, I am certain Larg has already made Barinten some offer. We will have to show him we are more serious. I would like you to head to Fovoham directly-"

But Cid was no longer paying attention to the Council. He was thinking of what Goltanna had said, comparing this conflict with the 50 Years' War. And that war had been brutal, true, exhausting the coffers of Ivalice, burdening the people with taxes and levies on their food, but back then they had stood together as one Ivalice, resisting an outside foe whose victory might spell an end to their nation. And for all the sins of the Ordallia and Ivalice alike—for all the monstrous things Ordallian soldiers had done to Ivalician citizens, and for all the crimes the Haruten had committed—they had still been able to find enough common ground to forge a peace.

Larg and his sister might be monsters, but every knight of the Hokuten? If every rumor about Dycedarg Beoulve was true, did that condemn his brother, Zalbaag? Why did tens of thousands of young men and women have to die in battle, to kill a handful of monsters? Why did the people of Ivalice have to suffer war's burdens again, to see their gil taken, their houses and fields burned?

Delita claimed their suffering was justified by their cause. Cid could not believe that.

Only one hope remained to Cid—that Olan, far afield on his own, might uncover some secret, some intelligence, some fact that he could lay upon the table as proof of the need for peace. More than that, he worried for his son, wandering a wartorn country all by himself. Crafty as he was, talented he was...

But no. He had to trust in Olan. And in the meantime, for all his doubts and fears, he would plan a new offensive as per his liege lord's order, and with his own sword would cut down more young lives, and add to the tide of blood that threatened to drown Ivalice. He could not spare the country its burden. He could only prove he was as willing to shoulder it as anyone else.


	65. Chapter 64: The Hand of Barinten

(Thank you for reading! The story updates every Wednesday, and if you're hungry for content in the meantime, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 64: The Hand of Barinten**

"As always, dear Baron, it is a pleasure," Barinten chortled, inclining his head to Bolminas so his double-chin touched his chest.

"The pleasure is all mine, my lord," the Baron said, bowing his head. "Would that my duties could keep me in Fovoham longer."

 _You've already wasted enough of my time_ , Barinten thought grimly, but aloud he said, "Oh, I understand. Why do you think I must first assess my defenses, before I can join your righteous cause? Dark times, my friend, dark times."

Baron Bolminas sighed and nodded. He offered Barinten a clumsy solute, and then he and his little coterie of soldiers rode through the outermost gate and headed east—along the winding log-guarded road that was the only sure path from Riovanes back into Ivalice. Barinten watched him go, and his smile died the moment he was out of sight. He would need to send messengers to some of the less necessary garrisons, and strengthen his guard. The Hokuten and Nanten might be pleading for his help now, but they would change their tune quickly if they suspected he would join their enemy.

But why would he? Why would he waste his precious Khamja on such a pointless, idiotic war that stood to gain him nothing?

"Clarice," he said softly, his blue eyes gentle, his bald pate gleaming in the sun.

To one side, a slender woman in her mid-teens stiffened to attention. Pale blue eyes sparked beneath her straw-colored hair. "My lord,?" she said softly.

"Follow them out a few miles."

Clarice nodded, hunched low, and leapt. She rose dozens of feet into the air, aligted on a nearby parapet, and was gone again. As he usually did when he had time to spare, Barinten watched her go. He knew from old Ydoran documents how it worked—he knew how all her magic was internal, warping her body's relationship to gravity. But that intellectual understanding did not preclude a certain base wonder, watching her float like a leaf on the breeze, like a bird on the wing.

When she was out of sight, he turned around and strode back into Riovanes, barely pausing to look at his Castle's impressive facade. The historians said that this had belonged to an exiled Ydoran luminary, whose contacts had still afforded him great wealth and means. So he had build a palace in his exile—a palace that was also intended as a fortress, for the day when he would return to take his rightful place as ruler of the greatest empire the world had ever known. His private mercenary army—the original Khamja—was feared even by the men who exiled him, and unassailable within their liege lord's stronghold.

The result was that the seat of power in Riovanes rivaled the strength of the Lion's Den or Mullonde, and was clearly outstripped only by Bethla Garrison. But a fortress, no matter how palatial, could not win a war. Nor could an army as small as his Khamja, however well-trained they might be.

Barinten's fat face folded into a frustrated scowl. Alone of the great forces of Ivalice, his Khamja had been blooded but unbroken by the 50 Years' War. They fought in almost every theater, but Barinten was careful to keep them back from hopeless engagements. He would not fritter his precious army away in brute contests of attrition.

And what else was this Lion War but such a contest? All the great armies of Ivalice, all the great lords and all their powerful allies waged bloody, brutal battle far and wide. But the lines had been drawn and fortified: what little either side gave was almost always reclaimed. Hokuten and Nanten died in service to their lords' ambitions, and the other nobles hoping for a claim on whoever sat the throne spent their soldiers eagerly to prove their loyalty.

Good to have such loyalty, Barinten supposed. But far better to be the man upon the throne.

The question was, how to do it? He had no doubt that his Khamja could decide the course of the war, but they could not face the Hokuten or Nanten in the field. Even if he could trust each of his soldiers to kill ten enemies apiece, they might still be overwhelmed.

He needed information. He needed intelligence.

He made his way down into the dungeons, wove through dark hallways until he entered the spacious quarters of his Hand. They were already assembled and waiting, staring straight ahead. Rafa and Malak, dark-skinned and dark-haired, the sister broad and powerful, the brother slight and agile. To Barinten's amusement, there were two identical women flanking them. Both versions of Clara had strawberry-blonde hair, sea-grey eyes set in a pale face, and a full-lipped mouth that desperately tried to hold back a smile.

"Two Claras?" Barinten said. "I would never be so lucky."

To their credit, neither smiled. "But which of us is the real one, my lord?" asked the one on the left.

Barinten chuckled and nodded his head towards the one on the right. That Clara scowled and their skin seemed to dissolve into grains of light, melting away until a slender, dark-haired child was left behind, tan and adrogynous, wearing simple grey-white fabric. "How did you know!" Berkeley exclaimed, in a reedy, expressive voice.

"Not your fault, Berk," Barinten said. "She called me 'my lord.' For all my training, you have never been so respectful."

Berkeley smiled sheepishly, while Clara smiled in earnest. Barinten smiled back at them, and asked, "What news from Bolminas' delegation?"

Berkeley smirked and shifted forms again—to the tall, busty, giggling woman who had ingratiated herself to so many of Bolminas' retinue. When she spoke, it was a thick, syrupy voice, endearing, tantalizing. "So many loose lips." She wrinkled her nose. "And too many wandering hands."

Barinten felt his smile stiffen into a grimace. Berkeley could be quite entertaining—from the first, they had used their innate gift with illusions to amuse and enrapture—but now they had been asked a direct question and did not answer at once. That was shoddy discipline.

Before Barinten could reprimand Berkely, however, Malak spoke. "Berkeley," he said, his voice velvet-soft, his eyes straight ahead. "Your lord asked you a question."

The buxom woman visibly deflated. Barinten felt his smile return. Ah, but Malak was a blessing. Intelligent, efficient and with a power of such tremendous versatility. Besides, this was just as it should be. Let discipline come from Malak, and kindness from Barinten. It would make them more liable to look to him for guidance and succor.

"No need to be too hard on him, Malak," Barinten said. "Though you make a fair point. We shouldn't waste time."

"Alright, alright," Berkeley sighed, suitably chastened. "Their position's a lot worse than they're letting on. Bethla's impregnable, and this kind of static warfare favors the Nanten, but they can't win the war from Bethla, and they're in danger of starving if the bad weather holds. A few of'em are hopeful, 'cause it looks like the Thundergod's cookin' up some kinda plan, but..." Berkely trailed off, the illusion dissipating to leave their regular form behind. They did not seem to be hinting at anything, so much as looking for the right words.

For the first time, Rafa spoke, her eyes still straight ahead, not quite looking at Barinten. "The Thundergod's prowess is undeniable, but even he could not turn the tide against Ordallia, and it is doubtful the years have sharpened his blade."

Barinten's smile widened, both at the intelligence she displayed in her answer and the careful way she kept her eyes averted (did she think if she did not look at him he would forget their next lesson?). But he nodded thoughtfully. "So," he mused. "The stalemate continues. And they look to us to turn the tide."

Malak looked at him. "Should we, my lord?"

Barinten pursed his lips. "I don't know," he admitted. "It's possible that if we play a decisive role, our power and prestige could increase accordingly. If we play our cards right, we may lose relatively few, while our ally loses enough to need us-" ( _or fear us_ , he added quietly to himself). "-still more. But Larg and Goltanna are both experienced commanders. I doubt they will allow themselves to be placed into such a powerless position."

"So do you wish to gamble on the Church?" Malak asked.

Ah, and _there_ was a tantalizing puzzle. He knew the Church played some game across Ivalice, but he did not yet know what it was. For all he knew, they simply did as he did—eyed the two great powers, and hoped to play their cards well enough to emerge triumphant, or at the very least break even. But the events of the past few months told a different story.

And then he wondered: did Malak see that picture?

"You tell me," Barinten said, to test his protege. "What do _you_ think?"

Malak's response was immediate: "No, my lord."

Barinten cocked his head, more in surprise at the speed of the answer than the answer itself. "No?" he repeated. "Why not?"

Malak straightened up; he recognized the test. "From the few field missions you've authorized, and with the help of my powers-" His eyes flickered towards the cages of small animals on a table on the far side of the room. "-we have confirmed that agents instigating rebellions in several quarters often make contact with agents who themselves make contact with Mullonde."

Yes, that had been rather clever on the Church's part: working through so many proxies that very few could find the threads connecting them. If it weren't for the Devil's Blood that pulsed through Malak's veins, Barinten imagined he would be just as in the dark as everyone else. "Yes?" he prompted.

"The Bishop of Canne-Beurich remains one of Goltanna's closest advisors," Malak continued. "And his influence has only increased with the death of Chancellor Glevanne."

"You mean 'execution'," Berkeley muttered under their breath.

Malak nodded. "Although Goltanna has not appointed a new Chancellor, the Bishop has assumed many of the Chancellor's duties. So officially and unofficially the Church exerts a great deal of influence over the Duke."

"There is also the matter of Geoffrey Gaffgarion." Most of what had come before was recitation: now Malak seemed alive, awake, aware, focused. "His contracts over the past two years pointed to a high-level contact within the Hokuten. Following the disappearance of Ovelia, he returned to Igros—and, from there, entered Lionel, just before the Cardinal's death."

Yes, and wasn't _that_ a fascinating morsel to chew on? Barinten was familiar with Gaffgarion, whose uncommon abilities had been of great interest to him. He had even considered trying to make the man a permanent part of Khamja. The idea of an entire unit of Vampire Knights, with which he could cripple any enemy mages...!

No, put that aside. It was not the topic at hand. "You believe he was involved?" Barinten prompted.

"It's possible, my lord," Malak answered. "One way or another, he did not survive."

Barinten blinked in surprise. "What makes you say that?"

"Someone would have hired him for this war," Malak replied. "Probably the Hokuten. Or he would have finally retired. But we've seen no sign of the man. He goes into Lionel, and disappears just as the Cardinal dies."

Barinten pursed his lips, trying to recall the official story. If he remembered rightly, the Church claimed that the same heretical faction that had killed the Cardinal's wife and son had finally killed the Cardinal, to protect themselves from the righteous judgment he had brought down in pursuing the sinners and criminals who had hurt his family.

"You think he was a heretic?" Barinten asked.

"I don't know, my lord," Malak answered. "I am more focused on his apprentice."

Barinten pursed his lips again. "You mean the Beoulve."

Malak nodded. "He's been traveling with Gaffgarion since the incident with the Death Corps-"

"The same incident that sent young Delita Heiral among the Black Sheep," Barinten finished for him, as the pieces clicked into place. "And now one of them has become a close advisor to Duke Goltanna, while the other is brother to Prince Larg's most trusted confidant."

Malak nodded. Barinten considered this. He had read about the youngest Beoulve brother—there was another sibling, too, a sister of no particular repute—but had not yet drawn the connection. The more he examined this scene, the stranger it appeared. Was it a Church plot? But then, what did the young Beoulve had to do with the death of the Cardinal?

"My lord," Clara said, and Barinten looked at her. She glanced towards Malak, who nodded, before she continued. "Are you aware of Beowulf Daravon?"

Barinten frowned and shook his head. "Any relation to Bodan Daravon?"

"His only son," Clara said. "His wife died in childbirth."

"He was also one of the Beoulve's friends," Malak added. "And was present during the Death Corps campaign."

Barinten mulled over this information. "You believe he may be involved."

"It seems likely, my lord," Malak said. "Especially since the Beoulve appears to be living at the Daravon Estate."

Barinten's head jerked up in surprise. "What?"

Malak nodded, a little smile creasing his features. "I confirmed with a bird a few hours ago."

"You can make it to Gariland?" Barinten said, with fresh surprise and admiration—the animals Malak controlled usually had much more limited range.

"We worked together, my lord," Clara said. "The limitations of the Devil's Blood appear to be principally based on the proportion of the Blood to the host, which alters the degree of his control and the duration it can last before it burns the host out. By weaving an enchantment to slow its progress on a falcon..."

"I see," Barinten said, and the applications were flickering across his mind. The Blood's utility and Clara's time manipulation were useful abilities in their own right, and of course he'd built the Hand specifically for the potential inherent in using their talents together, but that was innovative and inventive. He understood, too, why they had not told him: no wish to expose a potential failure, unless they had something to show for it.

"Well done," he said, allowing his own small smile. Both of them beamed in response to praise. Then he trained his eyes on Malak, and said, "But what do we intend to do with this intelligence?"

Malak straightened up. "My lord," he said. "We know the Church plays some wider role in this war—that their agents have influence with the Hokuten and Nanten alike. But all our leads are too prominent or too well-protected to risk exposure, either by tailing them or interrogating them. All except the Beoulve."

Barinten considered him for a moment. "You intend to capture him?"

Malak shook his head. "I do not know, my lord. We have his location, but otherwise our intelligence is limited. Capturing him may not be the wisest move, but we need more information. At the very least, we need to observe him."

Barinten considered. The Hand had taken part in many operations—he kept his Khamja sharp with mercenary work, and had sent along the Hand to observe and assist on many of these missions. But there was a full-scale war going on now. If he deployed the Hand, they would operate in isolation, completely independent.

Which was exactly what he'd trained them for.

"Make your preparations," Barinten said. "Request whatever supplies you may need. You have my complete trust. I know you will not fail me."

Malak's eyes were wide, his smile broad with shocked gratitude. Matching smiles were on Clara and Berkeley's faces. Even Rafa was smiling a little, her eyes finally trained on Barinten. He smiled at each of them, then turned and headed for the door. Yes, very good. The Hand would provide him the key to this mystery, the lever by which he might move this War to serve his own ends. They would be worth the time and energy he had invested in them.

Just before he left the room, however, he paused and looked over his shoulder. They had already broken from their attentive poses, chattering excitedly amongst themselves, showing their youth. Rafa's smile was much wider now.

"Oh, Rafa?" Barinten called.

She looked up at him, her smile fading. "My lord?"

"Since it may be sometime before I see you, we'll have to have a long lesson tonight," he said, with a flicker of warmth deep in his belly. "See me in my quarters at sunset."

Rafa's face went very still. "My lord, I have preparations-"

"Rafa!" Malak snapped. "Your lord has made a request of you!"

Rafa's mouth was tight. She took a deep breath. "Yes," she said at last. "Yes, my lord."

Barinten nodded, humming to himself. A lead at last, and his Hand to follow it. He would make his preparations, send messages and envoys (perhaps he would send small gifts to both Hokuten and Nanten, to pacify their attention). And tonight, he would continue his careful conditioning of Rafa. As always, he would take pleasure in his work.


	66. Chapter 65: To Stem the Tide

(Thank you for reading! The story updates every Wednesday, and if you're hungry for content in the meantime, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 65: To Stem the Tide**

 _"…but consider the larger picture! Yes, Bodan Daravaon only fought in one battle, but that battle was an overwhelming success against a numerically-superior foe which had seized the higher ground! And the man was Master Instructor at Gariland Military Academy! Consider the breadth of his knowledge, the contacts he must have on! Bodan could absolutely have defeated Denamda!"_

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Transcript from an argument at the Dissidia Fantasy Combat League"_

Ramza struck out with the heel of his palm, and Daravon ducked backwards, jabbing in with an elbow. Ramza danced away, the air rushing in his hears, his heart pounding as Daravon pivoted out from his elbow jab into a flurry of punches, finishing with a leaping kick that whistled as it missed Ramza's head by inches.

Saint above, how was the man so fast? Ramza had rarely seen Daravon fight before—only a few demonstrations in front of the class, or the occasional instruction during practice to help a struggling student understand. Seeing him in action was a different thing entirely. He was swift, deliberate, economical. He reminded Ramza a little bit of Gaffgarion, except that Gaffgarion had always cut straight to the heart of the problem. Daravon flowed a little more, danced a little more, played a little more, but his playful strikes still hammered where Ramza's guard was weak, and nothing Ramza could do could turn the tide. Ramza was holding his own, but he could not defeat Daravon.

They broke apart at the same time, Ramza's skin stinging with the echoes of blows, crouching low with his hands raised defensively. Daravon stood ramrod straight, smiling a little.

"Very good," Daravon said, smiling. "You're learning quickly."

Ramza managed his own flickering smile. "Not quickly enough to beat you."

"Quickly enough," Daravon said. His face was flushed but his breathing was even. Saint above, wasn't this man as old has Balbanes had been when he'd died? "You were one of the best at unarmed combat in your class, and you have only improved. Sadly there's not much call for it in Ivalice."

Ramza fought to control his own breathing, even though it made his chest feel tight. "Where did you learn this?"

Daravon shrugged. "Learning is life. I never stop."

Ramza's smile widened. "I like that. But it's not exactly an answer."

Daravon's smile softened to something conspiratorial and mischievous. "Ah, we had a visiting instructor from Fabul some time ago."

Ramza frowned. He knew the name, thought it felt unfamiliar. It took him a moment to recall some old lesson from geography. "That's the island nation on the other side of Romanda?" He shook his head. "Why would he come all this way?"

"Yang was an interesting fellow," Daravon said. "And a man best discussed over drinks." He gestured for Ramza to follow him back upstairs, and as they walked, they talked. "Such journeys are common among the masters of Fabul—a way to learn new arts from other countries and to strengthen Fabul by bringing fresh styles from abroad. He taught me when I was an Assistant Instructor, and I taught him. It was an interesting experiment: in Fabul, the philosophy is that you train the body to be deadly on its own, before you introduce any weapons or magic to it. But Ivalician traditions are descended from Ydoran philosophies, which mostly considered unarmed combat to be an emergency resort when your other weapons fail you. With the exception of the Heaven's Fists."

Ramza frowned. "Who?"

"The Ydorans had magic we can't replicate. They had an entire legion of soldiers whose magic was focused inwards, not outwards. It strengthened their muscles, hardened their skin, sped their regeneration. Their bodies were finer weapons than any sword. So did they earn their monikers: the Heaven's Fists."

"How does that work?"

"The Ydorans conducted generational experiments. Magic is in part biological—who we are, and who are parents are, has some influence. The Ydorans would breed people with certain talents, to create new kinds of magic."

Something about the idea made Ramza's stomachs squirm. "What, like...breeding chocobos?"

Daravon shot him an amused glance. "Or breeding noble heirs?" Ramza smiled a little at the joke, and Daravon continued, "No need to feel disgust, Ramza. You've met one of them."

Ramza frowned. "Who?"

"The girlfriend I'm not supposed to know about," Daravon said.

The...who was he referring to? Then Ramza's mind cleared, as he remembered the woman who had made the shadows of dragon wings appear around her. "Reis."

Daravon nodded serenely. Ramza was silent. He had not spared much thought to Reis, or to Beowulf. Here he was, living in his friend's house, with no idea what had become of his friend. He had appeared like a flash of lightning and disappeared like a dream at dawn.

"What happened to them?" Ramza asked.

"Hm?"

"The Heaven's Fists."

Daravon laughed, though it was a rather sad sound. "What happened to the Ydorans, after the Fall?" His smile darkened. "Some who'd inherited the art apparently survived in Zelmonia, but they did not survive the War."

Of course they hadn't. So few had. Not his parents, not Delita's, not Ovelia's.

Daravon lit the fire in the old fireplace—the one they had sat in front of, when Beowulf, Argus, Delita, and Ramza had ridden in triumph from their campaign against the Death Corps, each drunk on victory, purpose, confidence, and Daravon's whiskey. Every one of them was doing exactly what they wanted to do.

And look what had become of them.

"I had word from Baron Madoc this morning," Daravon said, sipping from his glass. "You remember his son?"

Ramza nodded, barely looking at Daravon. He remembered blonde, arrogant Madoc, one of the most persistent of Delita's many would-be assailants.

"He's dead."

Ramza looked up. Daravon was watching the fire, the shadows dancing along the lines of his face, weaving a dark mask for his features.

"I'm sorry to hear it," Ramza said.

"As was I," Daravon said. "He was an officious little bastard-" the genial way in which it was said startled a laugh out of Ramza. "-but he was too young to deserve this. They all are."

Ramza cocked his head. "All?"

Daravon nodded soberly. "The Academy trained officers for the Hokuten and Nanten alike. In every clash, at least one of our students is wounded or killed." He sighed heavily. "Some were your classmates. Some were mine."

How strange. Ramza had never stopped to think that some of his classmates might now be Nanten officers. Even the ones destined for the Hokuten had mostly kept their distance—only a few suck-ups had tried to ingratiate themselves to the brother of the Knight-Commander, and between Ramza and Delita they had put a stop it.

But of course, he should have remembered. Now Delita himself stood among the ranks of the Nanten. And for what purpose? He had helped them against the Church, and lied to them about what they faced. He had sent them knowingly into danger, and provided them the tools to escape the trap. Who was he really working for? What did he really want?

And of course, whatever he sought, he must be closer than Ramza was. He stood in the open, on the council of Duke Goltanna. While Ramza hid away, as people he knew died.

"And of course," Daravon murmured. "There is Beowulf."

Ramza looked up. His old teacher was staring stolidly into the fire, his face strangely impassive and made far more ancient than his years by the flickering shadows.

"It is good to know my son yet lives," he continued. "But a rather tiring thing, to know he is far afield for purposes unknown." He raised his eyes to Ramza. "And involved in the same strange conspiracies that trouble you and your friends."

Ramza shrugged uncomfortably. He and the others had all agreed to tell Daravon as little as was possible—they did not want to put him in any more danger than he might already be. But the Master Instructor had always been sharp, and he seemed very aware of the troubles Ramza and his friends were facing, for what little they'd told him.

"He has not returned home since Reis brought him here two years ago," Daravon said. "He went after her as soon as he was able to walk—and long before he should have been up and about, of course." There was a note of amusement in the older man's voice.

Ramza smiled himself. "I don't believe he ever took his injuries seriously."

"You have no idea," Daravon chuckled. "He broke his arm when he was six, and kept trying to practice his sword strikes. _With_ the broken arm."

Ramza laughed. "How did he manage that?"

"Not very well," Daravon answered, with a smile. But Ramza felt his momentary good humor dying away. The smile on Daravon's face was ragged and thin, and the eyes above it shadowed with pain that flickered like the flames in the fireplace.

"What happened?" Ramza asked.

Daravon shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "He would not speak of what happened in Fovoham. He left as soon as he was able. I received word he had joined the Templars-"

Ramza blinked. "What?"

"You didn't know?"

Ramza shook his head. "I...no." Another soldier among the Templars. Another hint of the purposes of the Church.

Daravon nodded. "I believe it was the same division that Reis was training for. But then he disappeared, and the next time I heard from him was when Besrodio Bunansa found his way to my doorstep because my son had sent him."

Silence again. Ramza was still mulling over the implications of this. Delita had told him that it was the Church who moved against them. Beowulf now fought against them, though he had once been among their number—and he appeared to be doing it with Delita's help.

Or was that really so strange? Ramza remembered the other man who had helped him and Mustadio to escape the trap laid for them: Barich, who had helped lured them in the first place. Who were these men, who fought with such cagey cunning to achieve their ends, and who risked their own lives on a whim? How could they move with such purpose, when Ramza had lost all sense of his own?

"I'm sorry," Daravon said, running a hand over his face. "You are burdened enough. I should not add my troubles to your own."

Ramza shook his head urgently. "It's no trouble, Instructor. After everything you-"

But he broke off. A look of deep pain had settled across Daravon's face, weighing him down so his shoulders seemed Sunken. He stared into the fire, his hands clenched in his lap.

"Instructor," he murmured. "We trained so many students, Ramza, from the far corners of Ivalice. We wanted to provide strong, capable soldiers in every corner of the country, so no Ordallia could ever threaten us again. And...and now they kill each other." He glanced at Ramza. "What if Madoc was killed by another of my students? What if Beowulf...what if..." Daravon sighed, and looked back to the fire. "What was the point of it all?"

Ramza stared at his old teacher helplessly. He did not know what to say. These same questions had haunted him in the darkness when he tried to sleep. He had yet to find an answer.

Something of his impotence must have shown on his face, for Daravon looked up and shook his head. "Ramza..." he said. "No, I am sorry, I did not mean to trouble you. It is simply..." He looked away from Ramza, away from the fire: he stared off into the shadowy corners of the room. "These are difficult times."

Neither Daravon nor Ramza spoke again. After a few minutes of terse, thoughtful silence, Daravon rose again, and drifted down the hall to his bedroom. Ramza remained where he was, watching the fire die to embers, draining his glass, refilling it, and draining it again. Dizzy now, his throat and eyes burning, desperate for some measure of oblivion to quiet his thoughts and his doubts.

Because Daravon felt it too. The hopelessness, the helplessness, the purposeless wasting of their days as other lives were spilled in this unnecessary war.

Something in Ramza's head hurt. Something in Ramza's _heart_ hurt.

He stumbled to the upstairs room he shared with Mustadio, careless of who he might disturb along the way. He staggered inside, sank on his bed with his sweaty clothes sticking to his body. The chill of winter sank in through the roof and the walls, and Ramza shivered where he lay, upon a bed in the house of another friend gone to places unknown for purposes unknown, another question added to the endless list, another note of grief and regret in this song that would not end.

Daravon had asked the right question. What was the point of it all?

Alone in a darkness that seemed eternal, accompanied only by Mustadio's faint snoring, Ramza struggled desperately to find some answer to Daravon's question. Some answer that might avenge the deaths of the men and women being killed across Ivalice, and prevent any more poor souls from joining them. Alone in the dark, Ramza tried to find a point.

And over and over, it was Delita he thought of. Delita, who, whatever his true purpose, seemed determined to achieve it. Whether he lied to Ramza about his true intentions with Princess, or lied to his employers about his true intentions for Ramza. Whatever he had to do, whatever the risk, Delita would not stop, and now his name was known far and wide across Ivalice as Ovelia's savior.

Delita, Barich, Beowulf. What could Ramza do, to equal these men, and fight for his own cause?

He did not know how long he laid there, thinking. But he was not surprised at the faint rapping of knuckles against the door. "Ramza," said Lavian's muffled voice. "We're going to be late."

Ramza rose slowly from his bed. Though it seemed as though he had barely slept, he felt clear-headed. His thoughts felt as sharp and clear as an icicle dangling from the side of a bridge, pointed towards the abyss, precarious and unafraid. And in that strange moment of fragile clarity, he made his decision.

He moved quickly to the door, flung it open and asked, "Are the others up yet?"

Lavian blinked. "I...starting to be. I'm always the first-"

"Wake them," Ramza said. "And bring them downstairs." He ducked back inside his room an shook Mustadio from his snoring sleep, ignoring his friend's muttered curses. When the curses turned to questions, he ignored those too, hastily gathering his things in the dark, packing for the road. He shouldered the pack he'd prepared and headed downstairs, with a silent Mustadio stumbling along behind him.

The others were all waiting in the sitting room—including Daravon and Besrodio. Ramza blinked at the Instructor, who offered him a little smile.

"We have jobs to get to, Ramza," Agrias groused, jerking Ramza's attention back to her..

"Why?" Ramza asked. "What do they accomplish?"

Radia scoffed from her position leaning near the fireplace. "They keep us fed. They keep us alive."

Ramza shook his head."Safe while people die in a war we know the Church arranged. The Church and that... _thing_ the Cardinal became."

Both Daravon and Besrodio looked bemused, but the others in the room—the ones who had stood at his side, in desperate combat against a monster from barely-remembered legends—pointedly refused to look at him. Alicia's good hand moved to cover the place where her fingers had been.

"We agreed that we would not-" Radia began.

"Not tell them?" Ramza asked. "Why not?" He gestured at Besrodio. "He was captured and beaten, and he-" he gestured at Daravon. "Is no fool. His son is missing, one of his friends sits on Goltanna's council, and the other fled Lionel just as the Cardinal died. We all know something's wrong."

"Of course something is wrong!" Agrias shouted, rising to her feet. "They have Ovelia!"

"She's Queen now," Lavian said, in a small voice. "Would she even want us to-"

"Of course she would!" Agrias cried, whirling towards Lavian..

"Even if she would," Radia said, meeting Agrias' glare. "Could she?" Her eyes flickered back to Ramza. "We've talked about all of this," she said. "The Church wants this war. Goltanna and Ovelia want this war. Larg and Dycedarg want this war. We couldn't keep Ovelia safe. What the hell are we supposed to do?"

Ramza reached into his pack, and pulled out the gleaming orange Stone he had taken from its hiding place behind the fireplace upstairs. Silence in the room: a few of the others drew back. None of them had been eager to spend much time among the Stones after seeing what the Scorpio Stone had done to the Cardinal.

"Is that..." Daravon began, and trailed off, his eyes transfixed by the gentle glow.

"It is," Ramza said. "The Bunansas found it beneath Goug. For that reason did the Church kidnap Besrodio."

Daravon nodded slowly. "Of course," he said. "Whatever the power of the Stones, there is power in the legend as well." He shook his head. "What do they aim to do?" His face contorted, as though he had been struck by a sudden thought. "Wait. What did you say about the Cardinal?"

The silence in the room was profound. It was all Ramza could do to keep himself present in the room, to keep his attention on the fact of this simple salon so he would not remember the burning in his legs, the aching in his soul, the laughter and the poison spewing from Cuchulainn's many mouths.

"People are dying," Ramza said, fighting off those grim memories. "We can stop it."

"How, Ramza?" Radia asked. There was a trace of ire to her voice, but also genuine curiosity, and just a hint of need.

"Even if we could get across the battle lines, we do not know what Goltanna would do," Ramza said, and the words burned in his throat the way the whiskey had last night. "And we know Dycedarg and Larg wanted this fight. But perhaps there's another Beoulve we can turn to."

Radia's eyes widened. She stared at him with almost unbearable compassion. "You don't mean-"

"I do," he said, hearing the ghost of old words in his head—words shouted in the snows of Zeakden, as they had faced each other with sword-in-hand. "Knight-Commander Zalbaag Beoulve."


	67. Chapter 66: Intrusion

(Thank you for reading! The story updates every Wednesday, and if you're hungry for content in the meantime, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 66: Intrusion**

 _If you wish to understand the sophistication of the Ydorans, consider Lesalia. Defended by stout walls and potent magic, supplied in trade by overland routes to Zeltennia through the wide but defensible Duguera Pass, with easy access to the fertile bounty of Fovoham to the north and supplied in ores and coal by the mines of Goland to the south. Is it any wonder the kings and queens of Ivalice made their home here? And it is any wonder that, when war devastated, refugees would flee here? The Ydorans did not think merely on the scale of cities, but of nations: not in the scale of years, but of generations. If we hope to match their achievements, we must expand our own minds likewise._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Guest Lecture to a Masters Class on City Planning."_

The chill wind cut straight through the ragged, roughshod cloak draped across Ramza's shoulders. He shivered and hunched in deep on himself, still patrolling the fringes of the hill where he and his friends and made camp for the night. Dusk was gathering on the horizon, as flakes of hesitant snow drifted out of the grey sky, clear against the twines, wisps, and pillars of smoke that rose up from Goland and the dozens of fires that surrounded it.

"You could come back to the fire," Mustadio said from behind him.

Ramza shook his head. "I needed space." When he glanced back at Mustadio, he found the young man shuddering worse than he was in spite of his ragged leathers, his hands buried in his armpits and a sour look on his face. "You can go back, Mus. I don't need the company."

Mustadio shrugged. "S'okay, Ramza. Hard for me to take it easy, after...after Baerd."

Ramza nodded. "It's okay, Mus. We've got the papers, after all."

As he said this, however, Ramza felt a twinge of doubt. Those papers—the fake orders Mustadio and Besrodio had carefully put together, modeling them off some of the old mercenary contracts Radia had rescued from Gaffgarion's house and with advice from Agrias about Lionsguard practices—were supposed to give them a reason to carry weapons in the field, as none of them were particularly eager to go unarmed with so many unknown enemies abroad. Ostensibly, they were mercenaries on their way to Lesalia for some delicate assignment for a mid-level Hokuten commander.

But even assuming they only encountered Hokuten on this journey didn't assure their safety. After all, almost every one of them had killed Hokuten soldiers in the fight in Araguay, and some of their number were supposed to be co-conspirators with the traitorous Princess who had embroiled the country in civil war. And what if the Church came after them officially, declaring them heretics? What if Dycedarg tracked them down?

Or—never spoken, but always visible in the weary eyes around the camp fire—what if another monster like Cuchulainn came calling?

Mustadio stayed silent behind him, as they watched the refugee fires beneath the wintry dusk. To the east, the smoke was just as thick—along the Hokuten lines just a few miles away. Men and women dying in the war they'd set out to stop.

"I confess, I do not nurse much hope of your success," Daravon had told him, the night before they left. "Zalbaag was not exactly forgiving as a cadet. I do not imagine the years have softened him."

"I know," Ramza said. "But I-"

"Have to," Daravaon said. "I know that too." He took Ramza's hand and squeezed it gently. "Can I do anything to help?"

Ramza squeezed Daravon's hand in turn. "You've already done too much."

But that had not stopped Daravon from giving them cloaks, coats, blankets, rations, and gil—far more gil than he should have. The old man had apparently spent very little of what they had brought into the house.

"My father will be okay?" Mustadio asked, as the silence stretched on the cold hillside.

"If Beowulf thought so..." But Ramza did not add the thought he knew was already going through his friend's head. The Hokuten, the Nanten, the Church, and the Lucavi themselves might all be their enemies. There might no safe place in Ivalice.

"Come on, Ramza," Mustadio said, and reluctantly Ramza returned with his friend to the fire. Alicia and Lavian were asleep in the same bedroll: Agrias practiced her sword strikes at the very limit of the firelight, while Radia stared into the fire and did not look up when Ramza and Mustadio returned.

There was nothing of righteousness here—nothing of the delusional certainty that had led Ramza away from Gaffgarion, or let him challenge the Gryphon Knights to free Ovelia and the Lionesses from Golgollada Gallows. He didn't know if he could ever feel certain again—not after what the Cardinal had become.

But they had to keep moving. They had to try. In the hospital, Ramza had seen wounds aplenty: on the road, he had seen still worse things. The remains of buildings still smoldering where some Nanten raiding party had broken through, or some Hokuten counterattack had scorched out their enemies. Roads and hills choked with people fleeing north, to the supposed safety of Lesalia. Hollow-eyed children watching from the backs of ghosting caravans. Eerie silence from stumbling masses who did not have the strength to talk.

And everywhere, corpses: corpses fallen face-first in trampled fields, or lying peaceably on their bedrolls where they had refused to rise again the next morning. Ramza well-remembered the dead left in the wake of the Death Corps flight to Zeakden. Here it was again: poor souls flying into the teeth of winter, searching for safety from a war that had not been of their making.

Lost in memories, Ramza drifted somewhere between sleeping and waking. He only realized he'd fallen asleep when someone shook him by the shoulder, cascading aches across his knotted muscles. He blinked awake, found Radia standing over him, staring off in the dark.

"Something's happening," she said.

Ramza rose unsteadily to his feet. His skin felt tight with the cold, and the fire had died to bare embers. The others were all awake, bunched towards one side of the hill. Ramza stumbled over to them, staring out into the night. Other fires still flickered in the distance, candles in the dark, but there were no stars or moon above.

Except...what was that? There, in the nearby night, flashes like starlight, like the night sky had shifted down to earth just for a moment. A short, sharp bark of something that might have been anger or might have been pain.

"Hokuten?" Mustadio suggested.

"Can't be an official patrol," Radia murmured. "They wouldn't bother being quiet."

"The Church, then," Agrias said grimly.

"Wouldn't they be after us?" Alicia asked.

Another flash of starlight, much clearer this time (the same impression, a patch of darkness with stars spattering it, like an imitation of the night sky). Ramza frowned. "It's coming closer."

Alicia and Lavian shifted, raising their scepter and staff: Mustadio pulled out his gun, as Agrias and Radia drew their swords. Ramza drew no weapons, though he flexed the runic gloves he wore upon his hands.

Another flash of starlight, at the base of their hill. Now Ramza's eyes could just make out a stocky shadow, dodging and cursing under his breath as something whisked through the air. Something like a blade.

"Help!" cried a young, rasping voice, startling Ramza in spite of himself. The shadowy figure bounded up the hillside.

"Come no closer!" Agrias hissed.

"Please, if you don't help, they'll-!" The voice trailed off in a yelp as the shadow flung itself to the ground: something hurtled out of the dark, and buried itself in the side of the hill.

"Light, Lavian!" Agrias ordered, and Lavian raised her staff and jabbed it forwards, so a faint light shone from the top, like a torch. It illuminated the scene: the young man with the dark ponytail clinging to the ground, his yellow leathers bright against the snow and earth, and the short sword embedded in the ground just in front of him, where it had sailed past his head.

And then the sword pulled itself from the ground, whipped through the air and tried to stab the young man through the back. The dark-haired man yelped and flung out his hands: bracelets on either wrist flared with symbols, and a slash of starry darkness intruded between his body and the blade. The blade skidded across this field as though it were made of stone, spun off into the darkness and then rose again, as though held in someone's hand.

"The hell?" Alicia managed, in a strangled voice.

The next moment, something plunged from the sky and hit the hill with a walloping impact that shook the ground beneath Ramza's feet. Through the spray of snow and clods of flying dirt he could just make out two figures—one muscular and powerful, the other wiry and agile. The wiry shape darted after the dark-haired man: the muscular one turned to face them.

Agrias and Radia were already in motion, swords raised: Ramza was just a step behind them, breaking into a run as Mustadio cried, "Don't move!"

The muscular shape—shorter than Ramza expected, in flowing white clothes—took only a single step to the side, to shield the slender shape darting after the dark-haired man. Ramza heard the percussive _bang_ of the gun firing, then heard an odd _crunch._ In the dim light shedding from Lavian's staff, he could just make out the bullet that had bounced off the woman's skin, spinning off into the snow.

A woman? No, barely a teenager, dark-skinned and young, younger than Ramza had been when he'd left the Academy. But Ramza was certain he'd never moved with anything like this deliberate speed. Each movement—even that single step to the side to intercept Mustadio's bullet—seemed to carry with it the weight and power of a thunderclap.

Ramza did not know if Radia and Agrias had seen the bullet bounce off the woman. Either way, they did not slow their strides: they raised their respective swords. Radia's shimmered, while Agrias' glowed white hot.

Ramza threw himself to the side just in time for the explosion, stealing just a little bit of its power to speed his steps. Up ahead, the dark-haired young man was darting and weaving around the seeking sword, still drawing up sweeping fields of twilight to shield himself. The other woman—as young as the muscular, bulletproof woman behind him, clad in a tight black outfit with a hood pulled over her pale face—twitched after him, moving as erratically as a leaf floating through the air. Except her movements, though strange, were clearly intentional—she rose high in the sky, plunged down like a spear, floated backwards as though sailing across water and then flew back as though fired from a sling. Her blows were accompanied by a great rushing of wind: where she struck the ground, she often left craters in her wake.

A shout of anger, and a streak of fire cut through the night, straight towards the hooded woman's head. But before it reached her, a blurred shape burst out of the darkness, skidded to a stop, and raised a hand. The incoming streak of fire slowed, crawling through the sky, its flames flickering with graceful lethargy, like flags in the wind.

Ramza caught only a brief glimpse of the woman standing in front of the flames with her hand raised—as young as the rest of these strange assailants, wider of hip and breast than the slender hooded woman behind her, with strawberry blonde hair flowing back over her shoulders. Then she raised a hand towards him.

Instinctively, Ramza reached out with his magical field, ready to try and pull in whatever she shot his way. He succeeded—he felt the magic pull beneath his skin, strengthening him—but for a moment the world stretched horribly, the sounds of battle warping and changing. His vision went blurry and strange, his eyes tearing up as he tried to process disjointed, unrelated images. A high-pitched whine filled his ears.

Then the world lurched back into motion. Ramza, stumbling, found that things had changed in that strange, stunted instant. The dark-haired man was higher up the hill, and the strawberry blonde woman was pinned between his field of night and Alicia and Lavian's magics, in a clash of shifting, melding energies that strained Ramza's eyes to look at. None of it quite touched the strawberry-blonde woman, but it kept her from casting.

Farther up the hill, Agrias dueled the muscular woman, whose fists deflected her burning blade effortlessly. Just down the slope from her, Radia clutched at the hilt of the flying sword, her body shimmering, her arm occasionally twitching as the blade tried to escape her grip. Nearby, Mustadio was firing his gun into the air, keeping the slender hooded woman from interfering with any of the ongoing fights as she flicked here and there across the sky.

Ramza started moving without thinking (faintly dizzy, mentally unsteady, not quite trusting that the world would not spiral away into strangeness again), racing up the hill. As he ran, the dark-skinned woman clapped her hands together, catching Agrias' blade between her palms. She wrenched the blade from Agrias' grip, and with the same motion hammered a kick into Agrias' side that sent the Lioness flying.

The muscular woman was already pivoting, leaping through the air (not quite as high as her soaring friend, but higher than any jump Ramza had seen before, higher than he had imagined a person might go). Ramza put on an extra burst of speed, skidded on his knees just behind the dark-haired man, and lifted one gloved hand, clutching at the relevant rune on his wrist. A shimmering dome of force burst from his fingertips: the woman cut through it as though it were cloth, though the impact diverted her so she landed a little ways away.

Ramza barely rose to his feet in time to feet her second charge. She was shorter than he was, but faster and stronger by far: as talented at unarmed combat as Daravon had been, and Daravon's blows could not deflect metal. Ramza lost his thoughts in a blur of motion, struggling to keep ahead of those lashing fists and legs.

Her skin was like armor: Ramza's every blow against it shot waves of aching impact through his bones, and no matter where he struck she seemed unperturbed by his blows. He tried to drain her field with his own, but before he could quite manage it she would drive forwards again, trying to pin him or sweep his legs out from under him, and Ramza's focus would be lost in a desperate frenzy to keep her back. He knew he could not allow her powerful grip to close upon him. If he did, he would be lost.

But Ramza couldn't help but notice that she wasn't going for the kill. He kept guarding his throat, head, joints, and groin, but she seemed only interested in disabling him, trying to knock him off his feet or shove him away. Ramza didn't know why she'd want to spare him

(a lunatic thought intruded, that she was like him in the old days, trying to fight without killing that it was all happening again, a strange reflection in the winter misery)

but he pushed the questions aside and focused on the woman in front of him. He could not strike her down. Perhaps he did not have to.

When she grappled for him again, Ramza shoved forwards, into her grip. It was the first time she'd actually managed to get ahold of him, and Ramza knew at at once he'd been right to fear her grasp. The power behind those fingers was nightmarish: in the delicacy of her grip he could feel how easy it would be for her to simply snap his bones like kindling.

But even before he'd started focusing on unarmed combat, he'd been a fair wrestler, and she was surprised by his movement towards her, her powerful grip unsteady, clumsy. Ramza used that, kneeling, ducking, twisting around to lock her elbows behind her head. He felt her straining against his grip at once (God, what strength! His muscles strained with the effort to hold her, his chest felt tight and breathless, and with every moment her strength grew), but all Ramza had wanted was space to focus again.

And so he drained away as much of her field as it could.

It felt strangely familiar—like draining away Agrias' sword attacks, the supercharged power that was so hard to properly process. She gasped against his chest, ducked low and threw him across her shoulders. Ramza rolled across the ground as snow sprayed into his mouth and nose, but sprung to his feet and struck at her, a solid kick that sent her stumbling backwards. In that moment, her skin had simply felt like skin.

Shouting reached Ramza's ears. He risked a glance down the slope, saw torches bobbing in the distance—at least a dozen of them, weaving around the other fires and towards the hill on which they fought. The way they moved looked organized. Too organized.

The dark-skinned woman followed her gaze, and hissed in frustration. For the first time, she spoke in a raised voice—surprisingly deep for her size and age, rough and weary with experience. "Retreat!" she barked.

At once, all of them moved. The dark-skinned woman pounced past Ramza, twice as fast as before, as the hooded woman landed in another earth-shaking impact on the opposite side of the mages, knocking them down. Ramza fought his way through the cloud of moist dust that obscured his vision, saw the dark-skinned woman shove Radia aside so that the flying sword was freed from her grasp. Then the three of them were running, with the sword floating along beside them.

"Get back here!" bellowed Agrias, limping over the top of the hill with a dent in the side of her armor. But the figures had already faded from view: the hooded woman grabbed ahold of the dark-skinned fighter and they leapt skywards, while the blonde woman sped up and blurred out into the night.

"No time!" the dark-haired man shouted. "I know a safe place! We have to go now!"

Agrias speared the man with a glare. "You are the one who brought them down upon us!"

"And if we don't hurry, we'll have the Hokuten upon us, too!" the man retorted.

Without looking back at them, the dark-haired man plunged up the hill and began packing up their gear. Ramza and the others, all panting, stayed where they were, staring with varying levels of confusion and anger at this strange man who had intruded upon them as he tried to fend off a flying sword.

Mustadio was the first to move, jogging his way up to the top of the hill. He looked back over his shoulder and called, "Might as well! I wouldn't be standing here if you hadn't helped me."

Ramza stared after Mustadio, and looked around his panting, exhausted friends. But every moment they delayed, the Hokuten grew closer. And if they wanted answers, they had to follow the dark-haired man. More importantly, he might be there only way out of the Hokuten's grasp.

Ramza staggered up the hill. The others followed him.


	68. Chapter 67: Soldiers of Peace

(Sorry for the delay, everyone! Internet's been real spotty in my area, so my update schedule might be a little weird, but I'll try to make up for it. If you're hungry for content in the meantime, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 67: Soldiers of Peace**

 _...Astrologians are in truth misnamed: their power has little to do with the stars, and its only connection to the Zodiac Stones is in the runes required to activate the art. At its most basic, Astrologian magic functions as a form of spatial manipulation, which is especially useful for the creation of barriers: attacks lose momentum and inertia, and magic disperses and drains away as it enters the warped time that the Astrologian creates. Sadly, the art was exceedingly rare even in the days of the Ydorans, given the cost of the materials involved, and without a civilization on their scale I fear we will see few practitioners of this useful art. As a result, Astrologians from the time of the Ydorans into our own time tend to people both of exceptional talent and exceptionally great means..._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Notes on Lost Ydoran Magic"_

At the dark-haired man's brusque insistence, they moved with weapons visible and eyes steely, seeming to search the cobbled streets of Goland for trouble. Anyone who met their gaze hurried quickly by. A few soldiers standing on street corners would eye them for a moment, then nod slowly: one of them would return the nod, and move on at the same slow, deliberate pace.

"Been a couple riots," the dark-haired man muttered out of the side of his mouth. "And with most troops at the front, not much is left to quell'em. Easy to find mercs and militias filling the holes."

"Won't they be looking for us?" Radia asked, in a growling, uneasy undertone.

"Nah," the dark-haired man replied. "You saw how those guys ran, too. They ain't working with the Hokuten."

"Hm." There was a grim note in Radia's voice. Ramza glanced back at her, and found her glaring at the dark-haired young man's back.

Ramza understood the feeling. This felt nothing like Mustadio. There was nothing desperate or lost about this man who had intruded on them out of the night. He moved with confidence, level-headed even as a sword flew out of the darkness seeking his head. He was self-assured to the point of arrogance, certain in his assessment of the Hokuten around him. He...

Ramza's stomach squirmed. This man reminded him of Delita.

But they were committed now, in the thick of a city the Hokuten and their allies controlled. What choice did they have but to follow?

The young man led them past the simmering refineries and smithies, down through narrow residential quarters where the buildings loomed overhead, and finally towards a raucous tavern near the west edge of the city, where men covered in dirt and soot roared and clapped each other on the backs, with only an occasional tavermaid spotted in the crowd. One miner shoved back a begging child, who stumbled back and landed heavily in front of them, covered in soot with a crust of blood upon their head. Mustadio bent over at once and helped the child to his feet, putting a coin into the child's hand. The child, wide-eyed and filthy, smiled gratefully and dashed off into the crowd.

"You want to draw attention to us?" the dark-haired man asked.

"I help people," Mustadio said. "You should be grateful. That's the only reason none of these folks have beaten answers out of you yet."

The dark-haired man laughed. "Not the only reason."

He walked a little ways past the tavern, then ducked around and cut through an alley between a warehouse and a blockhouse before darting into a little courtyard of stinking outhouses. Ramza wrinkled his nose against the cloying stench, but followed as the dark-haired man led them down another alley, to the back of the tavern they'd passed. A cook and a tavernmaid sat on the stone steps outside the kitchen, sharing a pipe: the cook rose quickly to his feet, his eyes flickering nervously between the armed band, while the tavernmaid kept her seat, puffing on the pipe.

"Here for Hamon?" the tavernmaid asked.

"That's right," the dark-haired man answered.

The tavernmaid sighed and smacked the cook on the side of the knee. "Go grab him. Tell him these mercs are looking for their cut."

The cook scrambled inside, nearly falling over in his haste to get away from him. The tavernmaid kept puffing on her pipe, eyeing the dark-haired man warily. "You bringin' us trouble, Olan?"

The dark-haired man flinched. Ramza guessed he hadn't intended to tell them his name. But when he spoke, his voice was calm. "Trying to get away from it, Lauda."

The blonde tavernmaid sighed. "I'm sure it's all going as planned."

Stomping footsteps cracked out towards them like pistol shots. "Which of you miserable bastards-" growled a deep, sonorous voice, but then the owner of the voice—a giant of a man, bearded and big-bellied—rounded the corner and froze. "Olan?" said the bearded man, staring at the dark-haired man in disbelief. "What in the Saint's name are you doing here?"

"Time for that later, Hamon," Olan said. "We need to lay low for awhile."

Hamon glowered down at Olan, then looked past him, eyeing Ramza and the others before searching the night beyond them. "Lucavi take me," he hissed. "If I hadn't served with your father..." He glanced down at Lauda. "Go make a fuss in the kitchen, will ya?"

Lauda shrugged, rose to her feet, and strode purposefully inside. Hamon waited a few seconds, giving a grimacing look to Ramza and the others, then waved for them to follow. From off to one side, there came a loud scream, and a clatter of breaking dishware.

"Ah, hell," grumbled Hamon. "When I said to make a fuss, I didn't mean..." He trailed off, muttering curses to himself, but led them quickly down the dingy hall to a door. He shoved it open, and waved down the stairs just visible within. "I'll bring you food and news later," he said.

"Thank you, Hamon," Olan said, and hurried down the stairs. Ramza and the others followed him down into the darkness: as the door closed behind them, Lavian raised her staff and called up light from its tip, illuminating a low-ceilinged, clammy cellar with dusty bottles in racks upon the wall and barrels stacked in the corners.

No sooner had they reached the bottom of the stairs then Radia whirled about with her blade drawn and slammed into Olan, knocking him back against a stone wall, her sword against his throat. "Don't even think about moving."

Olan had his hands raised, but an annoyed look on his face. "This is the thanks I get for finding us a safe place?"

"A safe place we only needed because you drew enemies down upon our heads!" Radia snarled.

"Radia," Mustadio said, his voice anxious. "He didn't attack us."

"No, he didn't," Radia agreed. "He just knew exactly where to run."

Olan shook his head fractionally. "I didn't. I was just-"

"You just _happened_ to run to the one camp with weapons and magic that could help you?" Radia asked. "I don't think so."

Olan pursed his lips and regarded Radia thoughtfully. "And what about you?" he asked. "An armed band pretending to be refugees?"

"We're mercenaries," Agrias said.

"And I'm a chef!" Olan snapped. "We all have our secrets, and I see no reason to go blabbing mine-"

"Except that if you don't," Radia said, leaning forward to the edge of her sword pressed harder against his throat. "You'll die."

Olan's eyes flickered away from her, to the other faces around the room. They settled at last on Ramza. "You're going to let her kill me?"

"I don't have much say in what she does or doesn't do," Ramza replied. "And even if I did, you're not giving me much reason to stop her."

Olan grimaced. He was young—as young as Ramza, if Ramza was any judge—and his yellow leathers stank in these close quarters. His eyes were a reddish brown, and he seemed to be constantly squinting, at those around him. His dark hair, pulled back in a ponytail, exposed a broad forehead atop his oval face.

"Exactly what am I being accused of?" he asked. "If I were with the Hokuten, you'd be in their hands now. If I was with the people who attacked me...well, they wouldn't have been attacking me, would they?"

"So you're with the Nanten," Radia said.

Olan hesitated. "Not exactly."

"The Church?" Mustadio said, his voice quiet but tense, like a bowstring with the arrow nocked.

For the first time, Olan's calm expression changed. His eyes widened, and his eyes twitched towards Mustadio. "The Church?" he repeated. "Why would I be working for the Church?"

Mustadio flinched, looking helplessly around the group for support. Alicia recovered first: "You're an Astrologian. Who else but the Church has the means to train you?"

Olan's mouth twisted. "As far as I know, there aren't any Church Astrologians."

Silence again. Ramza felt his skin prickling with it. Who was this man? He seemed to mean them no harm, but then, Delita had seemed the same.

At length, Olan sighed."Let's be frank. I've secrets I don't wish to share, the same as you. I'll tell you what I can, if you do me the same courtesy."

"You're in no position to bargain," Radia said.

"I'm not sure that's true," Olan said. "After all, I'm the reason you have your current safe haven. If Hamon finds me with a slit throat, how welcome do you think you'll be here?"

"In fairness," Ramza observed. "He didn't exactly seem happy to see you."

Olan glanced at him, his lips quirking into a smile. It relaxed his features, made him look a good deal less arrogant and self-assured. "No, I suppose he didn't."

Ramza looked at Radia. "It's your call."

Radia remained where she was for a few moments, her blade still pressed close to Olan's neck. Then she stepped away, sheathing her sword. "How did you find us?" she asked.

Olan, massaging his neck, took a seat upon a nearby barrel and shrugged. "I was looking at the refugees as they came in. Your group stood out."

"Why?" Radia demanded.

"Weapons, mostly," Olan said. "Plus signs of magic. The runes on his gloves. The gun on his hip." He shrugged again. "Even for mercs, you seem well-armed and well-trained."

"So you brought your enemies to us?" Agrias growled.

"Not just my enemies," Olan said. "Ivalice's enemies."

Ramza laughed. He felt the sound echoing inside him, the bitter doubts he still carried with him as chilly as the winter wind outside. "So many fine people fighting for the sake of Ivalice," he said. "Pity all they do is kill each other."

Olan shook his head. "So many people _saying_ they're fighting for the good of Ivalice. So few actually doing the fighting. Or rather, not fighting the right people, or for the right causes."

"And you don't think they feel the same?" Ramza asked. He was surprised at the quickness of his thoughts, and how easily they translated into words. He felt almost as though he were fighting, sparring with words rather than swords.

"Some might," Olan said. "But I think more are simply lied to, or are lying to themselves. Take those soldiers who attacked us-"

"Soldiers?" Lavian said softly. "Those were children."

Olan snorted. "Were any of us that much older when we took the field?" But he held up a forestalling hand. "I agree, they're too young to fight. But they're doing the fighting, nevertheless. Because they've been lied to, by another man hoping to profit off this damn fool war."

Ramza felt the mood in the cellar change. Olan was arrogant and presumptuous, but he apparently shared their opinion of the Lion War.

"Who?" Radia asked.

Olan leaned forwards. "You've heard of Grand Duke Barinten?"

Agrias snorted. "That hermit?"

Olan nodded. "The same. But he's no hermit, though he plays the part well. Why do you think he earned the title 'Grand Duke'?"

"Why?" Mustadio asked.

"Fovoham's damn near impossible to invade," Olan said. "So its Dukes have always had a fair bit of power. But Barinten's the first to translate that power abroad. He's gathered mercenaries, soldiers, scholars, and mages from within Ivalice and beyond. His Khamja had the lowest casualty rate of any force that served during the 50 Years' War. In fact, by most estimations, they ended the war stronger than when they started. They count more Ydoran arts and artifacts in their possession than any power besides the Templars. They are, in short, formidable. And it seems they are moving covertly across the country during wartime, in spite of Fovoham's ostensible neutrality."

"But why were they chasing you?" Radia asked.

"Because I found them spying on you," Olan answered.

Silence in the room. Ramza felt as though his thoughts had skipped a beat.

The door to the cellar creaked open, and Hamon stumbled downstairs with a stewpot cradled in one arm and a stack of bowls in the other. He set it down heavily at Olan's feet and swept an imposing glare around the room. "None of you touch my drink!" he growled, before stomping back up the stairs.

"Well now I want to do it just to spite him!" muttered Alicia, moving for the pot. When she popped off the lid, a cloud of savory warmth drifted up in a hiss of steam, and Ramza was suddenly conscious of the rumbling in his stomach. He moved towards the stewpot without thinking. He was not alone: Olan hopped off his chair, and the others crowded around, Alicia hastily started serving the bowls of stew, and everyone gradually retreated to their original places as they grabbed their bowls.

Ramza took a bite, and found the meat tender, the broth thick and warm, and the potatoes and carrots soft enough that they seemed to melt in his mouth. The taste of the food stabilized him, and got his thoughts moving ahead: he lowered the bowl and looked back to Olan.

"They were spying on us?" he asked.

Olan nodded, spooning his own bowl of stew into his mouth. "My compatriots and I had seen some troubling moves from Barinten's agents, so I came to investigate. I found them watching you. Then they found me watching them, and..." He shrugged. "I figured if they were observing without engaging they wouldn't hurt any of you."

"And you think that justifies what you did?" Agrias demanded.

"I'm not looking for justification," Olan said. "I had to make a call."

"Your compatriots," Radia said.

Olan and Ramza both looked towards Radia. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, her bowl of stew in her lap, watching Olan intently.

"Yes?" Olan prompted.

"You still haven't told us who you're working for."

"I'm not working for anybody," Olan replied. "I'm working with people, for a common cause."

"And that cause is?" Radia asked.

"Peace. We hope."

Radia's mouth twisted to one side. "And peace requires bringing Barinten's soldiers to us?"

"Barinten's soldiers were already near you," Olan said. "I just made you aware of them. And I confess, I've questions of my own. What is it about you that Barinten's elite soldiers find so fascinating?"

A dangerous question, especially given what Ramza and the others had already revealed about themselves. But Ramza's mind was still moving quickly.

"Easy enough," Ramza said. "We're a mercenary troupe hired by a high-ranking Hokuten commander."

"Oh?" Olan's eyes arched doubtfully. "Is that why you ran from Hokuten soldiers?"

"The mission we're on would not be sanctioned by the Hokuten," Ramza said.

"And what mission is that?"

"Peace. We hope."

The corners of Olan's mouth twitched. "How fortuitous, that we soldiers of peace should cross paths."

"Nothing fortuitous about it," Radia snapped. "You're the one who came to us looking for help."

Olan considered her. His face softened a little. "You're right," he said. "If the soldiers of a profiteer were interested in you, your mission could hardly be otherwise." He bowed his head, setting his bowl down on the barrel next to him. "I'm sorry. I didn't want to trouble you. All I can say is you were troubled already, even if you didn't yet know it."

It was the first time Olan had seemed even remotely contrite. Ramza felt himself relaxing in turn, but it was Mustadio who spoke: "You're not the first person to trouble these fine people with your own problems."

Agrias snorted. "No, I suppose not." She gave Mustadio an amused glance. "And I suppose he was more helpful than you were."

Mustadio flushed. "I'm sorry I use a gun and not magic!" he grumbled. "Next time you can..." He trailed off, looking towards Olan. Olan was grinning, his elbows propped on his knees, his head braced upon his interlaced fingers. "No wonder Barinten's soldiers are after you," he said. "You guys _are_ fascinating."

"And what about you?" Ramza asked. "With your clear-eyed friends all looking for peace?"

Olan shrugged. "You say you're working for a Hokuten commander," he said, with a note of cynical amusement in his voice. "Who, of course, can't voice his anti-war opinions in the current climate. You think this commander of yours is alone?" He gestured around them, beyond them. "People in the Hokuten and Nanten alike know this war shouldn't have happened. Others who thought the war was inevitable don't know why it's still going. Others wanted no part of the war and are feeling its costs all the same. Gallione, Lesalia, Zeltennia, Fovohoam, Lionel, Limberry...no shortage of tired people. I'm just trying to see what we can do."

"Careful," Radia said sardonically. "They might take you for the Death Corps."

Olan shook his head. "Not looking for violence. Violence is what we're trying to stop. We just need to create pressure. To let people know they're not alone. To find the people who want war, and get them away from the reins of power."

"Doesn't matter if you're looking for violence," Radia scoffed. "It'll find you, anyways."

Olan laughed. "Believe me, I know."

"We're missing the bigger picture," Agrias said shortly. "These child-soldiers...will they keep tracking us?"

Olan shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know why Barinten had them after you in the first place." He paused, and then added quietly, "Could it have something to do with the Church?"

Another wave of silence, as Ramza and his friends looked at each other. Quick as Ramza's mind might be moving, he had no answer for Olan. What he said sounded appealing—of a network of contacts all across Ivalice, each hungry for peace. But convincing as Olan was, Ramza was too wary after Lionel. He expected his friends shared his hesitation.

"You haven't told us anything about your comrades," Radia said. "You expect us to tell you about our own?"

Olan's eyebrows arched again. "So you're allies of the Church?"

Radia stayed silent, as did Ramza and the others. This time, he felt it was intentional. Even if they could believe what Olan said, it was better to keep this conflict to themselves. The Cardinal's killers could count on little support across Ivalice.

Olan sighed, visibly deflating. "I'm sorry," he said. "You're quite right, I've imposed too much upon you as it is." He waved one hand and hopped off his barrel. "I'm going to get some shut-eye, if you don't mind."

He retreated past the barrels to a far corner of the cellar, and huddled down upon himself, resting his head against the wall. Ramza and the others watched him warily, but as soon as he laid down he seemed to be asleep.

Ramza would have liked to talk about the young man, to try and figure out what had happened, but things were already risky enough with what they'd said and done. They had managed to keep Olan from learning their names, and had kept most of their mission opaque. That would have to be enough.

So the group settled in across the cellar in silence. Ramza had already slept earlier in the night, and so felt rather restless, shifting constantly as the dark wore on. He did not know how much time had passed before he heard the door to the cellar creak open above them.

Olan was on his feet so quickly Ramza wondered if he had slept at all, moving to the foot of the stairs to meet Hamon as the big man came into view. He had a pack in his hand, which he offered to Olan.

"You're clear," Hamon said.

"You're sure?" Olan asked.

Hamon nodded. "No bulletins out. No one looking for information. Just a general order to watch out for public disorder and danger." Hamon looked around the room to Ramza and the others, all of whom had taken their feet and had their weapons near at hand. "Tavern's empty," he said. "Staff's gone home. Take either door. I'll lock up behind you."

"Thank you," Ramza said, and his words were echoed around the room.

Hamon waved a hand dismissively. "No need for that. Any friend of Olan's is welcome here."

"I appreciate it, Hamon," Olan said, clasping the other man's meaty hand.

"You better, whelp!" Hamon grumbled. "Next time you come through, bring some damn custom. And say hello to your father for me."

Hamon headed back upstairs. Olan turned back to them, his face solemn. "Assuming you're satisfied with my answers, I'd suggest we part ways. We all have such important missions of peace to get back to."

Radia snorted. "Anyone ever tell you you're kind of an ass?"

"Almost constantly," Olan replied, grinning.

Everyone gathered their unopened packs and headed upstairs. The wood-floored, stone-walled tavern was empty, its big windows barely outlined in pre-dawn light. Olan was looking between the big doors at the front at the kitchen hallway they'd taken to the cellar, back to the alleys and outhouses. Ramza watched him for a moment—this man who reminded him of Delia, and claimed to serve the cause of peace. "Olan."

"Hm?" Olan glanced at him.

"Who's your father?"

Olan smiled. "A veteran of the 50 Years' War. Made more than a few friends."

Ramza smiled back. "My father was the same."

Olan snorted. "They cast an awful long shadow, don't they?"

Ramza laughed in turn. "They do, at that." He thought for a moment, then asked, "Who does your father fight for now?"

Olan's face grew more serious. "For the good of Ivalice."

"And he's not being lied to?"

Olan hesitated. "I'm not sure," he answered at last. "That's one of the things I'm trying to find out." He paused for a moment, his eyes locked on Ramza's. "You know, I never learned your name."

Ramza hesitated. He thought of Baron Grimms, who had recognized his name and hinted he knew who Ramza truly was. Grimms, who was dead now—killed investigating the trouble in Zeltennia he'd suspected held some larger import. And ostensibly, the only survivor of the Black Sheep was Delita Heiral.

So many reasons not to trust. And so many reminders that if he didn't, the people he wanted to talk to might disappear or die.

"Ramza," he said.

If Olan recognized the name, he didn't show it. "Ramza. It's a good name."

"You'll pardon us if we're not so trusting as Ramza here," Radia said dryly.

Olan smiled. "I suppose I can find it in my heart to forgive you."

Ramza extended a hand. "Good luck, Olan. Whatever you're trying to do."

Olan's smile softened into youth again, and he took Ramza's hand. At the same time, he looked around the group, and said, "There are few indeed who'd risk their lives when a man like me brings trouble to their doorstep. I know how lucky I am that you are such a few."

He looked at Ramza, then, and added, "Good luck Ramza. Whatever you're trying to do."

Out into the wide streets of Goland, with few souls in sight at this early hour, the sky still heavy with darkness and only a faint line of light upon the horizon. Under her breath, Radia said, "Move fast, sudden turns. I don't want his friends following us."

"I don't think it's his friends we have to fear," Ramza answered, though he stepped up his own pace.

She gave him a wry look. "You really trust him?"

Ramza thought for a moment, and looked back at Mustadio, who looked curiously thoughtful beneath the pre-dawn light. "Yeah," he said. "I think I do."


	69. Chapter 68: The Burden of Command

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 **Chapter 68: The Burden of Command**

As the dark-haired man slipped out of the kitchen door, the brown rat was just a step behind, darting from shadow to shadow, its skin itching, its eyes blurry. But though Olan never looked back, he nevertheless seemed aware of his pursuer: he ducked into crowds, wove beneath tents, stepped into alleys and buildings and quickly out through doors and flaps. The rat followed as best it could, ignoring the prickling fire beneath in its chest, but time was running short.

And when it had given up hope of following the spy, it turned around and sprinted back towards the fringes of the city, where the refugees were thickest. A slender, wide-eyed child in threadbare clothes was shuddering against a building, with a begging plate in front of them. A few passerby threw coins into the plate: one or two actually tried to help the child up, but the child would shake their head in silent protest and eventually the weary souls would relent and be on their way.

The rat scurried up to the child. Without even looking down, the child grabbed it and cradled it between their hands.

"I'm sorry, Malak," Berkeley muttered. "They ducked inside-"

"Not your fault," Malak said, his voice vibrating up through the rat's skin. "Last thing we need is to draw attention to ourselves. At least, anymore than we did. Besides, I was able to eavesdrop."

"Yeah?" Berkeley's voice was weak with relief. "What'd you hear?"

"They're not working together."

"You're sure?"

"Absolutely. It was an interrogation, and they didn't reveal anything about themselves That's the good news."

"What's the bad?"

"Olan told him who we're working for."

Berkeley cursed to himself. "That's not good. Our cover's blown."

"Not yours. They're heading north, to Lesalia."

"You want me to follow?"

"That's the plan. You've still got your vial?"

Berkeley tapped the glass vial of Malak's blood hidden in his clothes. "Half left."

"Good. Only a drop. Any more might be dangerous." Malak paused. He could feel the heat beneath the rat's skin, growing and growing as though a flame were burning in its belly. He had to be quick. "There's more. They mentioned the Church. Thought Olan might be one of their agents."

Berkeley's voice was excited. "So they must know something."

"That's the hope." The rat began to squirm in Berkeley's grip: the child set it down, and it took off at a sprint, hurrying into a nearby gutter and dropping down into the stinking sewers. Its joints ached, and its eyes could barely see. Its squeaking climbed to a frenzied, whimpering pitch as blood vessels burst and bones and flesh melted, and pain suffused Malak's being before he was hammered back into his body, his head spinning.

"That's it," he said grimly, his hands over his eyes, his breathing harsh in his throat.

"I'm sorry, Malak," Clara said. "I couldn't-"

"It's not your fault," Malak answered. "We could barely make the spell work when were on our asses at the castle. Enchanting living things is hard enough. We're lucky we even had a rat to try it with."

"Not lucky," Clarice grunted. "I'm just that good."

Malak tried to smile, though it was hard with the phantom flames licking at his skin. He hated staying in his animals until the Blood burned through them: echoes of their pain would stay with him for hours, sometimes days. He felt faintly nauseated and weak, but controlled those feelings and turned to face the others. Clara still looked guilty: Clarice looked murderous. Rafa seemed quite calm in her flowing white garb, which infuriated him.

"How were you so useless?" he demanded.

Rafa gave him a withering look. "Vampire Knights can drain my magic," she said. "And the way Mage Knights supercharge their blades...you know it's almost the same way my skin works. Either one's a problem. Both?" She shook her head.

Malak bit back his rage and nodded slowly. He had felt the Vampire Knight—Gaffgarion's daughter—draining the magic from his sword, so it felt as though all his strength were pouring out through a wound in his heart. None of this was Rafa's fault, but he had lashed out in his leftover pain from the bird, and from the frustration of having allowed a spy to slip away from them.

But that wasn't his fault, either. He'd had no reason to expect a spy: they had traveled well away from the main roads, supplied by Clarice's hunting. They'd seen no one nearby until Malak had spotted Olan by chance when he'd sent a bird flying north and seen the odd patch of fabric in the green. And the moment he'd know the spy was there, he had tried his best to eliminate him. He couldn't have known he would run straight into the thick of the men and women he needed alive.

"An Astrologian," Clara said, shaking her head. "I didn't know his powers could block mine."

"That's the whole benefit of the art," Malak replied. "For defensive purposes, there's no magic stronger." He rested a hand on Clara's shoulder. "There's, what, half a dozen Astrologians left in the whole world? You couldn't have expected it."

"No," Clarice said grimly. "But it does raise some questions."

Malak nodded. "Olan Durai."

Clara winced. "You're sure?"

"An Astrologian whose father fought in the 50 Years' War?" Rafa said, rolling her eyes. "Of course he's sure."

"Lucavi take me, that's bad," Clarice muttered.

"Not necessarily," Malak said. "It's not exactly unexpected that someone might be suspicious of us: we're the only neutral country in this war besides Lionel and Mullonde, and if we're right about the Church they've probably given both sides reason to turn their attention elsewhere."

"But he knows we're after Ramza!" Clara said. "He warned him about us!"

"But they don't know the extent of our powers," Malak said. "No one does. Between Berkeley and me, we'll follow him. There's got to be a reason he's going to Lesalia."

"Didn't he say he was going to see a high-ranking Hokuten commander?" Rafa asked. "Could be his brother."

Malak frowned and nodded. "It could. I thought they weren't on good terms?"

"I know the feeling," Rafa said, with a slight smile.

Malak fought his answering smile. "But you're not wrong, Clara. It's a different situation now. I don't think this is a mission sanctioned by Goltanna, but we can't afford to draw Hokuten or Nanten eyes. We'll have to be cautious." He sighed. "It's a good thing we're not too far from Riovanes."

Rafa stiffened. "Why?"

"The Duke needs to know about this. And I need more birds." He tapped the cage they had with them: only a single pigeon remained within. It was possible he could capture more, but the captures wouldn't equal the birds they'd trained, even with Malak's blood in them. Besides, the trained birds carried the enchantments he and Clara had crafted together. When he fed them blood, he needed less, and they could travel farther and responded to commands more accurately. Losing three of them thus far was already a problem; only seven remained in existence, including the one in the cage.

"How do you want to do this?" Clarice asked.

Malak thought for a moment. He needed Clara's magic to counter the Lionesses, and if the bird died before help came, he would need Clarice to provide an aerial view of the situation. He'd only need Rafa if it came to a fight, and at this moment it was too dangerous to consider engaging Ramza until he had more intelligence.

"Rafa," Malak said. "You'll head back."

"No," Rafa said at once.

Clara and Clarice stared at her. Malak's insides felt very cold. "What did you say?"

"You need me here-" Rafa started.

"I _need_ ," he interrupted, letting the flames of anger he felt in his belly tinge his voice. "Soldiers who follow orders."

"I'm not obliged to follow your orders if they're wrong!" Rafa snapped.

"The Duke gave me command of this mission, soldier!" Malak growled. "Are you questioning him?"

Rafa's whole body flinched. Her eyes closed. "No."

"Good," Malak said. "You'll leave as soon as you're ready."

Rafa inclined her head, but did not speak. She busied herself with her pack.

"You didn't have to be-" Clarice started, but fell silent when Malak glared at her. The anger was still heavy in his stomach, cloying as smoke. Clarice grabbed Clara's shoulder and pulled her away.

Malak busied himself with his own gear, examining vials of his blood, experimenting with the sword Gaffgarion's daughter had drained. How strange, to feel his connection to the Blood used against him like that! But interesting, too: somehow his magic must stay connected to his body. He wondered what that might mean?

"Malak." Rafa's voice was quiet.

"Rafa." Malak tried to make his own voice stern. "You have your orders."

"You're in charge, brother," Rafa said. "If that's your decision, I'll abide by it. I'm sorry if I made you feel like I wouldn't."

Malak's skin prickled, torn between relief and paranoid concern. Was she trying to flatter him, or had she realized he was right? Aloud, he said, "You think that'll make me more inclined to listen to you?"

"I think you need to listen to me," Rafa said. "If you're going to make this call, it has to be with all the relevant facts."

Malak considered for a moment. He felt a faint ache of annoyance, but he couldn't deny Rafa her point. She'd already agreed to follow his orders, whatever they might be. It was only fair to listen to what she had to say. A good commander always listened to the troops, to make sure he had all the intelligence he needed. No commander was omniscient. "Alright. Talk to me."

"The only way I get to Riovanes fast enough to make a difference is with Clara," Rafa said at once. "Sending me without her is just as good as not sending me at all, and sending me with her means it's just and Clarice backing Berkeley up."

Malak considered this. The powers of a Heaven's Fist were many, but it didn't make her that much faster than the rest of them. "Go on."

"Without me, you're screwed."

Malak laughed. "Excuse me?"

"Look," Rafa said. "Far as we know, you're the first person to put the Devil's Blood into a sword. Or rather, the first person to make it work."

"Two swords," Malak said, tapping the hilts at his hips. He knew how childish he sounded, but couldn't stop himself.

Rafa smiled. "Two swords," she said, and the slight undercurrent of laughter in her voice brought a smile to Malak's face as well. "But you can't see through those swords the way you can see through animals, right?"

Malak didn't bother to answer: Rafa knew the limitations of his powers as well as he knew the limitations of hers. The Hand didn't keep secrets from one another.

"But their Vampire Knight just showed how she can mess you up," Rafa said. "I know your plan's just to observe, but what if we have to subdue? If I'm not here, it's just you, Clarice, and Berkeley."

"That's enough," Malak said, though the words sounded unconfident even to his ears.

"Most of the time? Sure." Rafa's face was steely with resolve. "But Clarice almost got shot, Malak. I know you couldn't see it, but it was close. Berkeley's got moves, but no more than any other soldier, and his illusions only extend to his own body. He fucks up once, and he's gone. You'd be safe, but you also wouldn't be able to help."

Malak sighed heavily. "But you would." It wasn't a question. Clarice, Clara, and even Malak were all exhausted after the encounter with Ramza and his friends: only Rafa was more-or-less untouched. She had a bruised rib, but nothing worse than she'd had in training, and using the Heaven's Fist didn't exhaust her that much unless she did something truly spectacular. "That's a fair point, Raf."

Rafa's voice was softer now. "Mal, I know it's hard. You're trying to take command, and you're doing a good job. I'm not trying to push you around. But you need me here. I...I can't go to Rivoanes."

Rafa was right. And once he saw that he, he also saw that Clarice needed to go. He needed Clara here more than he needed Clarice: without Clara's time spells, he'd soon exhaust any animals they had handy, and that was assuming they could catch more. If it was just the one they had left, that time would come much sooner. Clarice was a great warrior—probably better than Malak in a straight fight, and perhaps as good as Rafa, though his sister would disagree. But she wasn't invincible. One slash from a sword or bullet from a gun would take her out.

He could do without Clarice. He couldn't do without Rafa and Clara.

"You're right," he said, because Rafa deserved to hear it. "I'll have Clarice spend the night hunting animals, then send her on her way."

"That's a good call, Mal," Rafa said.

Malak felt shame slime his insides. She had been right the whole time, and still behaved with such grace. Maybe she deserved command more than he did. "I'm sorry, Raf. I know I've been an ass."

Rafa smiled. "No more than any other CO we've had," she said. "Better than most. You're doing good, Mal."

He hadn't known how badly he needed to hear those words. He was tense with responsibility, terrified of failing the Duke. He still remembered the orphanage on the Zelmonia border—never enough food to go around, packed to the gills with orphans from Ivalice and Ordallia alike, the big and strong helping themselves to food, blankets, and beds, and the priests too exhausted and afraid to fight for the younger kids in such an uncertain world.

And he remembered his first glimpse of the Duke, walking through the crowds of orphans and caretakers like Ajora himself. They parted for him, in awe and terror of the man who commanded such power. And that man—that balding, confident man—had laid eyes on Rafa and Malak, and known they were special from the first glance. He had pulled them from the chaos, and given them training, and purpose, and meaning in this mad world.

He wanted to earn what the Duke had given him. He wanted to exceed the other COs they'd had. He wanted to be the very best, to repay the man who'd saved them.

"I just...I just want to make the Duke proud," Malak said.

Rafa's smile faded. "Right."She stared at him for a moment. "You don't have anything to prove, Malak. Not to anyone."

"After what he did for us?" Malak said. "We owe him."

Rafa shrugged. "I guess."

Malak observed his sister carefully, remembering the first few months of their time at Riovanes. "You're not having those nightmares anymore, are you?"

Rafa shook her head solemnly. "No, Mal. No nightmares. I know where I am."

Malak studied his sister for a time. When they had first been taken into the Duke's care and begun their training, Rafa had been plagued by nightmares of the Duke made monstrous, visiting tortures upon her in the night. Once the Duke had come in during their training, and Rafa had flown into a rage, breaking equipment and the bones of Khamja soldiers, smashing her way towards the Duke. But two mages had overwhelmed and sedated her, and she had been taken away.

Malak remembered pacing his little room in the Riovanes basement, terrified of what would happen next. The orphanage had been a rotten place, children beaten and starved and cast out onto the streets for the smallest violation of the rules. Malak had been so afraid he would lose this secure place, that the Duke would realize he'd made a mistake and throw them out into a cold and hungry world.

But the Duke himself had come later that night, sat Malak down and comforted him. He understood exactly what Rafa had done: her powers were strong, and she could finally strike back against a world that had wronged her. No wonder she had nightmares—the things she had seen, and the things that had been done to her. She wasn't as strong as Malak was. She needed special training.

Malak hadn't felt particularly strong—at night he could still see the fires that had consumed Galthena, could feel the heat on his skin and hear the screams of people on the fringes of the village smell that sizzling pork smell, undergirded by a stench like burning copper. He remembered how it felt to have a soldier's boot in his belly, or feel the stinging slap of the orphanmarm's hand. He remembered how his stomach had rumbled and ached when there had been no food to go around.

But the Duke thought he was strong. The Duke thought he was worthy. In spite of his and Rafa's failures, he gave them food, and attention, and training. He took Rafa aside for the private lessons that helped quiet her nightmares, and gave Malak the tools he needed so no one would ever hurt them again. He gave them worth and meaning in a hard, empty world.

"Good," Malak said, his head full of all these memories and more. He reached out and took his sister's hand—his sister, who had been with him through it all, and borne her share of the costs. "I need you here, Raf."

Rafa squeezed his hand. "Then here I'll stay."


	70. Chapter 69: The Gallant Knight

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 **Chapter 69: The Gallant Knight**

 _I need not lecture to you fine, pious souls on the monstrous nature of Germonique. He who was the closest disciple of Ajora, his right hand in battle against the Lucavi and the potentates of the Ydoran Empire whom the demons served. But out of greed and jealousy Germonique betrayed our savior to the enemy they fought, and so brought Judgment upon our world._

 _It is often said of Germonique that his crimes were humanity's writ large, and for that was the Ydoran Empire made to Fall. But I think it is more than his crimes. I think it is his very nature. For Germonique did not look upon himself, and see a sinner betraying a savior. He saw himself as a righteous man doing a righteous deed. He looked upon himself and saw a hero. So it is with all men: the Germoniques of the world do not believe themselves traitors, sinners, or monsters. They think themselves the heroes of their own Brave Story, and you the godless monster that they must best._

 _-Marcel Funeral, "On Following God in a Godless World"_

"But the orders-" Mustadio started.

"I know what the orders say, Mus," Ramza said, as gently as he could manage. "What I don't know is how Zal's going to react."

They were seated in the library of the old Beoulve Estate just beyond Lesalia's tall walls. The place was not quite a ruin—its walls still stood, even if there were holes in many parts of the roof and the floors were thick with dust and detritus—but it had no been an especially comfortable place when Ramza had visited in his youth, and the years had emptied it further. They were meeting in the library (recognizable only because of the sheer number of bare shelves inside) because it had a large, simple table and enough chairs to accommodate them all, as well as a window that admitted the cold morning light.

"But he's your brother," Mustadio protested. "Do you really think-"

"He does," Radia said. "And he has reason to."

Ramza shot her a grateful glance: Radia did not look at him. Ramza looked away, with a flicker of old pain. "She's right, Mus. It's better if it's just me. Less questions, less risk."

"I find it hard to believe that the Gallant Knight could do anything to tarnish his name," Agrias mused. Ramza winced: he'd half-forgotten the moniker Zalbaag had earned during the 50 Years' War, for the honor of his deeds in the field. He heard Gaffgarion's voice whispering in his head, wondering what the so-called honor was truly code for. Wondering what crime his brother had committed that had earned him his reward.

"But I think I have learned better than to trust in reputations," Agrias said. She nodded at Ramza. "If you think it best you go alone, I agree."

"There's also the risk of running into Lionsguard," Alicia pointed out.

Agrias grimaced. "Yes, thank you, I thought that went unsaid."

"What risk?" Ramza asked.

Agrias' grimace deepened. Lavian spoke instead. "We were never the most...popular members of the Lionsguard. Being the guard to a Princess who's now declared herself queen..."

Ramza laughed. "Oh, Saint protect us, is there _anyone_ we can trust?"

The corners of Agrias' mouth twitched. "I have been asking myself that same question for quite some time."

There was some grumbling, but no one else brought up any meaningful objections, and soon enough Ramza left the old manse, cut through the overgrown orchards and headed towards the city gate. He moved with martial ease, approached the frustrated gate guards with a swagger the emphasized the sword at his hip.

"Hold!" said a young blonde guard, his eyes narrowed into a glare. "Permits required for all weapons!"

Ramza arched his eyebrows. "Really. You really need to see my permit."

"I don't like your tone, whelp," growled the young guard's grizzled, bearded companion.

Ramza rolled his eyes. "Did my brother put you up to this?"

The blonde guard blinked in confusion. "Your brother?"

"You're not serious." Ramza put as much condescension into his voice as he could, and searched the guard's confused faces as though in disbelief. "You _are_ serious. Lucavi take me, what's Zal playing at?"

"Zal?" The blonde guard's grow was furrowed. "I don't know a Zal."

"Yeah you do," mumbled the grizzled guard. "He means Zalbaag Beoulve."

The young guard gaped, staring between his grey-beared comrade and Ramza. "I...I, uh..."

"Right," said the bearded guard. "I think you should fetch the captain."

One after another, from the guard captain at the gate to the garrison commander summoned from a nearby barracks. Then to a baffled Lionsguard cadet attached to the Hokuten command center near the Lion's Den, and then to the begrudging adjutant to a high-ranking general. Every time, Ramza was the same: polite but firm, confident but not afraid to pretend at irritation and annoyance, until at last he had wandered through the polished halls of the Hokuten headquarters and reached the office just outside the situation room, where a frightened assistant attempted to delay him.

"Oh, Saint's sake, let him in!" grunted that familiar voice. It was clearly annoyed, but Ramza thought he detected just the faintest trace of amusement. Ramza nodded with as much dismissive authority as he could muster, and shouldered his way through the doors.

Zalbaag was studying the maps upon his table. Two years had not changed him—not his fine sable armor, or the lean muscles of his arms, or the focus of his features. His dirty blonde hair was still cropped short, his beard still trim, and Justice still hung at his side. The same sword he had held in his hands when they had faced each other at Zeakden.

"Going by Beoulve again, are we?" Zal asked, not looking at Ramza as he entered. "Decided not to be ashamed of our name?"

Ramza knew that he was supposed to be calm—that he should be pleading his case to Zalbaag, trying to make him understand. Instead, Ramza said, "I was never ashamed of our name. I was ashamed of what the men who held it had done."

Zalbaag's eyes flashed up at him, then back down to the table. "Is that what brings you here? Come to finish off what you started at Zeakden?"

"What I started?" Ramza whispered, flames of anger leaping high from his stomach to his throat even as a chill wind seemed to be blowing in his mind. "I'm not the one who killed Teta."

Zalbaag's head jerked up as though Ramza had struck him. His glare as sharp enough to cut. "I did not touch her."

"Argus was many kinds of monstrous, but he was never disobedient," Ramza retorted. "Who gave the order, Zal? Who made that arrow fly?"

Zalbaag's fist slammed into the table. "I killed the man who tried to kill my brother!"

"And in so doing, killed your sister!"

"She was no more my sister than you are my brother," Zalbaag sneered.

"Yes, let's talk about our brother!" Ramza shouted. "Let's talk about the man who sent the Corps home with no pay so they had no choice but to-"

"Oh, of course!" Zalbaag bellowed. "Siding with the Corps, just like you did then! Left your own brother to die in the snow at the he man who-"

"The man who tried to save Teta?" Ramza growled. "The man who was a better Beoulve than you'll ever be?"

He saw the shock of hurt in Zalbaag's eyes, and relished it. "You miserable bastard," Zalbaag whispered. "Father must have been mad, to think you deserved to bear our name."

Ramza laughed. The time was long since past when his brother's judgments could wound him. "Ah, so seeing the point of the people we wronged makes me unworthy, but Dycedarg starts a god damned war and is still our shining example."

"More accusations!" Zalbaag yelled. "You think you can through mud upon him, but-"

"You know exactly what he is!" Ramza shouted. "Why else did you send us after the spy? Why else did you try and save the Marquis?"

Zalbaag stiffened. "I am a soldier, not a traitor," he said. "Dyce made a mistake. I tried to correct it."

"Tried to correct it by having us break the rules!" Ramza exclaimed.

"Tried to correct it by making sure no rules had to be broken!" Zalbaag retorted. "Saint above, is that what you thought all this time? You thought I agreed with you? You thought I didn't trust Dyce?"

That was exactly what Ramza had thought. No, thought was too weak a word: that was exactly what he'd hoped. That some part of Zalbaag knew, and all Ramza had to do was help him see it. Now Ramza felt as though he were slipping on a tightrope of ice, about to plummet down into an abyss.

"He..." Ramza started, feeling the hope pulled out of his grasp like a rope slipping away beneath his hands. "He wanted the Marquis to-"

"Damn it, Ramza!" Zalbaag said, slamming a fist into the table. "Is this how you see the world now? Even your brothers are suspects?" His eyes hardened. "Or is this how you always saw the world?"

Razma still felt unsteady. "What do you mean?"

"Delita sits upon Goltanna's council," Zalbaag answered. "In service to an assassin-"

"Ovelia is no assassin!" Ramza objected.

Zalbaag's eyes narrowed. "Ovelia? Are you so familiar with the false queen?"

"I was on her guard, Delita!" Ramza said.

"You were..." Zalbaag seemed taken aback. "What?"

Ramza saw his chance, and pressed. "I'd been working with Gaffgarion-"

"You worked with that-!" Zalbaag exploded and then stiffened. "Oh, I see. That's why Dyce hired him."

Ramza stared at his brother. "You know?"

Zalbaag snorted. "Of course I know. He hired Gaffgarion to investigate the Lionesses. I believe Gaffgarion helped discover your precious Ovelia's plot."

"It's not her plot!" Ramza snapped. "Dyce arranged for her to be killed-"

"Oh, I see," Zalbaag grunted, rolling his eyes. "Our brother is the assassin, not the false queen who leads our country to civil war-"

"She didn't lead anything!" Ramza shouted. "She's being used, we all are, the Church-"

"The Church?" hissed Zalbaag. "By the Saint, Ramza, is there no limit to this? You betray our order, our name, our King, and now are church?" He shook his head. "A murderer, a traitor, and a heretic."

"You're not listening!" Ramza cried, feeling the ice slipping again, feeling the abyss yawning beneath him.

"Why should I listen to you?" Zalbaag demanded. "How far did you crimes extend? Did you hate Dycedarg even then?"

"Even...what?"

"Your friend tried to kill Hokuten men, and now fights for a traitor. You left me for dead at Zeakden. And the Corps you so admired tried to kill Dyce, too. Did you tell Gregory where our patrols were? Was it all for power, bastard?"

Ramza stared at his brother. His anger was gone. "You...you don't mean it."

Zalbaag stared steadily back.

The doors burst open. An exhausted, dirt-covered messenger staggered in. "My lord!" he gasped. "The pass..."

Zalbaag's head swiveled. "What?"

"They've broken through. An army marches on Lesalia."

Zalbaag's eyes widened. "Impossible. There were four thousand men-"

"The Thundergod led the Nanten force."

Zalbaag cursed quietly, moving to the door. "Send word to Commander Semele and Colonel Pulmia! Semele needs to pull back his troops and move along the mountains. I want Pulmia to head as far north as she can and wait for my signal." He paused at the door, and gave Ramza one swift, dismissive glance. "I can trust them not to leave me for dead."

The ice shattered beneath Ramza's feet, and the darkness came flooding in to drown his feelings, as Ramza watched his only hope for peace storm out of the room.


	71. Chapter 70: Heretic

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 **Chapter 70: Heretic**

 _...but understanding a man's story does not mean condoning his actions. What matter if Germonique thinks himself a hero, for betraying our Saint? The Fall proved him wrong. God shows all sinners and heretics the true worth of their deeds. And we are arbiters of His word, fellow travelers on the path that our Saint illuminated for us at the cost of his life. We know what must be done. Our task is to see His paradise realized: to win the confused over with words and deeds, and to right the wrongs of those who know the true path and refuse to walk it. What matter that there are Germoniques in the world, confident in their righteousness? We have the Judgment of God on our side, and if they will not stand with us, we will see them Fall._

 _-Marcel Funeral, "On Following God in a Godless World"_

He did not remember leaving the severe, angular Hokuten headquarters. He did not remember the streets of Lesalia, or the panic of soldiers running to and fro. He barely saw the scars from the Nanten's last attack—the rubble still uncleared, the sections of wall shattered and broken, the construction at work on the crater at the base of the towering Lion's Den. Signs of the battle in the city, of the war that was still killing thousands, a war he couldn't stop.

"Ramza."

Bastard and betrayer. That was what Zalbaag thought of him. Was he wrong?

"Ramza?"

All the wrongs of his life were pouring down atop his head: failing to save Teta, failing to keep his oath to the Valkyries, killing Argus in the snow, killing Gaffgarion at Lionel, and how many other poor souls had been lost to his sword because he did not have the courage to-

"Ramza!"

Ramza stopped, as the sharp voice finally pierced his thoughts. He blinked against the cold sunlight, looked for the source-

Found Alma, with her arms folded across her chest.

A heavy red cloak was folded around her simple beige dress. Her hood was up, with only two locks of her golden air peeking out. Her green-eyed, imperious gaze seemed a little confused, torn between anger and concern. "Ramza, what's wrong?"

Ramza shook his head. "I can't..." He trailed off, fighting the sob rising in his throat. "I..."

Tears blurred his vision: he closed his eyes, so she wouldn't see him crying. Then her hands were on his arm. "Come on," she said, pulling him close, so he was half-draped across her shoulders. "Where are you staying?"

"The...the old..." It was getting harder and harder to speak. It was all he could do to put one foot in front of the other.

"The Estate?" she asked. "Hold on."

Step by step, as the world faded around him. Ramza felt his mind reeling and spinning, trying to make sense of everything. He had led his friends out of safety and into the thick of Hokuten territory, where the servants of Duke Barinten had already tried to shadow them. He had done this in the hopes of appealing to Zalbaag, and ending the war. But Zalbaag hadn't listened. Had looked at him with scorn, suspicion, and derision. No more than he deserved.

"How...did you..." Ramza tried to focus on anything but his endless failure.

"Dyce has got me traveling with Zalbaag," Alma said, her voice strained. "Figures I'm safest wherever the Hokuten commander is, y'know? I've been paying off some of his staff for intel."

Ramza blinked down at her. "What?"

Alma rolled her eyes. "I learned a long time ago not just to rely on what you guys tell me. If you had your way, I'd just sit in a locked room, combing my hair and saying my prayers." She propped him up as they navigated the thick press of refugees still streaming through the gates of Lesalia, steering him like a boat over troubled waters. When they had parted from the crowds, she asked, in a low voice, "Ramza. What's wrong?"

At Alma's question, Ramza's failures hammered home with renewed voice. He gave a gasp that was half a sob. "I fucked up," he breathed, his voice thick with tears. "I fucked everything up."

He started to talk, and couldn't stop. It poured out of him like water through a broken dam, a flood of words and thoughts and feelings he was helpless to quell. He started with what had just happened—with coming to Zalbaag, hoping to find a lever with which he could stop the war, only to fight a rancorous, bitter, heart-breaking fight. And from there, he told Alma everything else that had happened since that day he'd left the Beoulve Manor with Reis, Beowulf, and Delita at his side. He told her of the fight against the Valkyries, of Wiegraf's revelations, of Teta's death. He told her of Gaffgarion, and Ovelia, and the Church conspiracy. He even told her of Cuchulainn.

By the time he'd finished talking, they'd reached the overgrown orchard outside the Estate, and could walk no further. Alma and Ramza sank together against the trunk of bare-branched tree, its barren boughs hanging heavy over their heads. Alma was shaking, but Ramza was too lost in memory and pain and failure to reach out and comfort her. It was all he could do to keep from weeping.

With a rustling of wings, a bird alighted on the tree, chirping quietly to itself. Other than that, there was no sound in the cold orchard.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Alma asked. Her voice was a low, miserable whisper.

"I almost did," Ramza answered at once, speaking as quickly as he thought. "I...back at the inn, in Igros, and...but..." Stumbling again, lost in the darkness, drowning in regret.

"But?" Alma repeated, sounding as lost as he did.

"But if...I told you, you wouldn't..."

"I wouldn't stay with them," Alma finished.

Ramza nodded. Alma whirled on him, grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him as her voice climbed into a trembling screech. "Of course I couldn't, Ramza! Zal killed Teta, and Dyce tried to kill Ovelia, and you want me to stay here and-!" She seemed almost to be gagging for a moment, choking on the words.

Then she regained control: her eyes narrowed into a ferocious glare, and when she spoke her voice was level, sharp and cold as an icicle. "No, Ramza. I'm not going back."

Ramza shook his head. "Alma, you have to-"

"You know where we are, Ramza?" she asked.

Ramza looked around them. The ground was thick with overgrown plants, many as bare as the wide-limbed fruit trees that surrounded them. It was a small orchard, grown riotously wild with the inattention of the Beoulves. The chill had stripped away much of the greenery, but a certain verdant splendor remained. Even in the winter cold, this place felt alive.

"The...the orchard," he managed.

"Not just the orchard, Ramza," she said. She reached past him, and rapped her knuckled on the trunk of the tree. Ramza turned slowly, stared at the tree and felt himself falling into the past again. He hadn't even noticed the letters carved into the bark. D, A, R, T. Delita, Alma, Ramza, and Teta. In spite of the cold, he felt the memory of the summer sun above him. He remembered the feel of the kitchen knife in his hand, helping Teta carve her letter (Alma, of course, had stubbornly waved away any help she was offered). He heard Delita snoring, heard Alma and Teta talking amongst themselves. He remembered watching the way the sunlight had trickled through the green leaves above him, as he looked up into infinite blue skies, and felt young and strong and alive.

He remembered a kiss, hours later, when dusk had painted the horizon in colors like liquid flame. He remembered because the kiss had felt just the same, like molten metal smoldering somewhere inside him.

"Now," Alma said. "You're telling me that our brothers are the reason Teta's dead. That our brothers tried to kill Ovelia. That this whole stupid war is being fought for lies by...by the Church..." Her voice weakened a little, then steadied again. "That a fucking Lucavi sprang up from a Zodiac Stone. No. Ramza. I'm not staying here."

Ramza stared at his sister's face—at wild eyes like his, beneath hair like his. He stared at her, with the initials of his friends at his back.

"Are you the sister?" asked a strange voice.

As Ramza turned, he had time to really consider that voice. It was higher in pitch than you expected for a man, a little braying, a little shrill. Yet something about it _carried_ , like a drill sergeant or a commander addressing his troops. It was both professorial and militant, knowledgeable and confident. The moment it had spoken, Ramza had felt compelled to look to its owner.

The man who owned the voice was likewise an odd mixture. He was a little portly, his thin, greying hair a little askew. He looked faintly puzzled, his thin lips pursed beneath his broad nose, his grey eyes searching. He wore simple grey robes with white trim and an ornate necklace dangling upon his chest, and carried a thick book stuffed with papers under one arm. Rings gleamed upon his fingers.

"I thought you and your brother were estranged," the man murmured. "Curious, curious..."

"I'm sorry, sir," Alma said, turning to face him. "This is the Beoulve Estate, and you are trespassing. Who are you?"

"Zalmour Lucianada" the man answered. "Inquisitor of the Church. You are Ramza and Alma Beoulve, correct?

Ramza stared in disbelief. His eyes flickered down to the necklace the man wore, and saw that the Virgo symbol was at the center of the ornate design, with other elements Ramza did not quite understand. "Inquisitor?" Ramza repeated.

Zalmour's eyes narrowed in confusion. "Are you hard of hearing?" he asked. He reached into the book under his arm, pulled a sheaf of papers out, and began to flip through them. "That wasn't in the dossier..."

"No, I...I heard you." Ramza felt cold inside. "I'm...I'm sorry, Inquisitor. What are you doing here?"

"Inquiring," answered Zalmour. "As is my purpose. Three mercenary soldiers were appointed to the Princess' guard. One returned to Igros, to be questioned about the events at Orbonne. Two disappeared. It took quite some time to find confirmation of what had happened—of the Beoulve and the Gaffgarion who were present at moments of trouble all across Lionel, and who were last spotted in Zaland fleeing north with Lionel in ruins behind them. It would appear you are involved in the death of Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, and we must conduct an official inquiry in Mullonde to see if your guilty of heresy or other crimes. If you will come with me?"

The ice was slipping from beneath Ramza's feet again. He had been haunted by many fears since the night at Lionel, visions of soldiers breaking down doors and of demons spewing poison as they laughed with many mouths. But Inquisitors were of a different order, a handful of men and women who existed outside the ordinary strictures of class and power within the Church and without. Inquisitors were the law of the Church, with broad powers all across Ivalice, and sometimes beyond them. He remembered some story Daravon had told him, about an Inquisitor who had been able to pursue his suspect across the Romandan Empire. And such a man now stood before him, accusing him of the death of Cardinal Delacroix.

"I'm sorry, Inquisitor," Alma said, bowing her head contritely. "I should have recognized the symbol of your office. It's just a long time since I last saw one. But I must ask, have you properly notified the relevant authorities? It would be quite a scandal if the Church were to take custody of Dycedarg Beoulve's brother without obtaining the correct permissions."

Zalmour chuckled. "A monastery girl through and through! But I am an old hand at this, Lady Beoulve. I assure you, I have given adequate notice to anyone who might be troubled by my actions."

Alma's eyes flickered to Ramza. "I see," she said, in a small voice.

Odd. Why was her voice so small? Why the look of betrayal and hurt in her eye? Why that faint sense of...what was it? Meaning? Think, Ramza, think: what had she said to the Inquisitor? About how it might cause a scandal for...for...

Dycedarg. If an Inquisitor was arresting a Beoulve, it was either with the intent of provoking the whole family, or with their knowledge and permission. And Ramza already knew Dycedarg had had some hand in Lionel. Why else had Gaffgarion been there?

The ice fell again. But this time, the darkness did not yawn. It was like a sudden plunge from a high place. It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. Ramza laughed.

The Inquisitor's eyes narrowed. "Is something funny, Ramza Beoulve?"

"Where to begin?" Ramza said. "You've my brother's permission in this mad endeavor—the same brother who tried to see Ovelia killed, and who sent an assassin after us when protected her."

"Ramza-" Alma started, with a warning look.

"But of course your Church is willing to work with him!" Ramza exclaimed. "The same Church that tried to kill one of my friends. The same Church seeking out the Stones."

Zalmour's face whitened. "What do you mean?"

"Tell me something, Inquisitor," Ramza said, talking very quickly, careless and wild. "Did you go to Lionel Castle? Did you see the damage that had been done to it? Did it look like the work of a human being?"

Zalmour's face whitened further. "Are you...are you confessing to the murder of Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix?"

"I am confessing," Ramza began, feeling wild and careless and exultant. "To facing a Lucavi that sprang from the body of the Cardinal Alphonse Delacroix, fueled by the Zodiac Stone he held." He was aware of how mad the truth sounded, and aware also of a curious ecstasy, a sense of liberation "I am indeed confessing to killing the demon who tried to kill my friends."

Zalmour's face had settled. He regarded Ramza coolly, as though assessing distant terrain. "I see," he said. "It seems there will be no need for an inquiry. You share your sins with pride."

A gesture with one hand—so casual, as though making a point in an animated conversation. Ramza had already started to raise one glove to stop it before the column of light hammered home around him. The air was pulled out of his lungs, and he gasped and choked as his body jerked into the air, as though suspended upon countless hooks.

"You transgress against your country, your Church, your God, and your Saint!" thundered Zalmour, his voice carrying a preacher's weight now. "Heresy has only one cure!"

The next moment, the pillar of light warped and broke. Ramza sank to his knees, gasping desperately for air: he could just barely make out the translucent light around him, like stained glass woven out of mist.

"How did you..." Zalmour's outrage was marred by confusion. "Ah, of course. Simon has been teaching you things he's not supposed to."

"You're not taking my brother," Alma snarled, with a ferocity that surprised Ramza even as he rose to his feet, reaching for his sword.

"Lower your hand!" snapped Zalmour: with another gesture, a beam of light smashed out towards Ramza. The multicolored light around Ramza and Alma seemed to solidify briefly before being blown aside: a gust of force nearly knocked Ramza and Alma off their feet.

"I warn you, Alma Beoulve!" Zalmour bellowed. "Aiding and abetting heresy makes you complicit in that heresy!"

"She has nothing to do with it!" Ramza shouted, stepping forward to try and shield his sister.

"It's not heresy if it's the truth!" Alma yelled, shouldering her way past Ramza.

"The truth?" Zalmour asked. "The Cardinal of Lionel, a Lucavi? Your brother walks Germonique's road! He murders a man of God and calls it justice!"

"He's not a murderer!" Alma cried.

"He confessed, child!" Zalmour thundered. "That he did so while pretending the Cardinal was a demon does not absolve him of his crime!"

"He didn't pretend anything," said another voice. "The Cardinal was a demon."

Zalmour pivoted smartly on his heel, so he could keep Ramza and Alma in his peripheral vision and still see the newcomer. Radia was strolling through the orchard, her red-bladed sword in hand. She was smiling pleasantly.

"Radia Gaffgarion, I presume?" Zalmour asked, his voice taut. "You are also ordered to Mullonde, to face an inquiry-"

"No need, Inquisitor," Radia said. "I'll confess right here. The Cardinal turned into a demon and tried to kill us. We killed him first."

Zalmour's even teeth were bared in a terrible grimace. "Rarely have I seen heretics so brazen-"

"Well," Radia said mildly. "We're pretty confident in ourselves. After all, you came alone."

Zalmour's grimace intensified, and his fingers flexed. "Do you think your Draining Blade will protect you, heretic? I am an ordained Inquisitor. You are not the first Vampire Knight I have faced."

Radia shrugged. "Maybe not, Inquisitor, but I still don't like your odds here. Maybe you can stop me, maybe not. But Ramza's armed, and I guess Alma can block your magic, so you're already at a disadvantage. That's not even getting into the royal-caliber mages-" In a ripple of dispelled magic, Alicia and Lavian appeared to one side, their scepter and staff trained on Zalmour. "Or the royal Mage Knight-" Agrias pounded out from behind a nearby tree, sword drawn. "-or the machinist with his gun trained on you." She pointed: Ramza followed the direction of her finger, and found a humanoid figure on one knee at the very edge of the orchard wall, his gun fixed on the Inquisitor.

Zalmour was standing very still now, his eyes flickering among the faces of the soldiers who surrounded him. "You are already consigned to hell for what you have done!" he snapped. "Come, then! Compound your sins upon me! I do not fear you!"

But there was something about the man that gave Ramza pause. His voice was strained, even if it was defiant: his face was pale, even if his eyes were set. He did not look like the Cardinal, making casual decrees from on high. He looked like a man, fervent in his belief, prepared to die for his cause if that was what was required of him.

"We're not heretics," Ramza said.

Zalmour glared at him "Deny all you like-"

"We're not heretics!" Ramza repeated, louder. "We're telling you the truth. You want proof?" Ramza gestured. "Go. Tell your superiors what I told you."

Zalmour studied Ramza's face, his lips pursed. "Do you hope to give me false hope before you take me?" he asked. "Do you think I will submit to such a trick?"

"It's not a trick," Ramza said. "We had no choice but to kill your Cardinal. I don't think we have to kill you, Inquisitor."

Zalmour studied Ramza a moment longer. Again, his eyes flickered around the soldiers who surrounded him. His ringed fingers tightened on the book under his arm.

"Do not think your pangs of conscience will spare you," whispered the Inquisitor. "I will not take your pretense of mercy for a sign of virtue. When the time comes, I will be your hunter here on Earth, to consign you to hell in the hereafter."

"Well, in that case..." Radia drawled, taking a step towards him.

To his credit, Zalmour didn't flinch. He gave her one defiant look, and strode purposefully off into the distance, neither hurrying his step nor looking back over his shoulder to see if they were moving after him. Ramza and the other watched him until he was out of sight.

And the moment he was, Radia's pretense of cool command collapsed. "Back to the manor!" she shouted. "We need to get out of here!"

Ramza knew she was right. They had only driven Zalmour out because he was alone: he would be back, and soon, with reinforcements in tow. But there was the matter of Alma, standing next to him. Alma, who had faced an Inquisitor. Alma, who had protected an avowed heretic.

"We have to get you back," Ramza said.

Alma had been staring after Ramza, looking exactly how Ramza felt—wide-eyed and disbelieving, pale and disheveled. But the moment he spoke, she seemed to recover herself, and turned to face him with fire in her eyes. "Yeah?" she said. "You think Dycedarg's gonna fight for me if an Inquisitor comes calling?"

Ramza hesitated. Unlike Ramza, Alma was still a credit to the Beoulve name. Dycedarg would not allow her to be taken easily. But how hard would he fight for her, really? How much of the Beoulve's power and reputation would he risk for a bastard sister? And was he even here to do the fighting? Zalbaag was closer, and Zalbaag had just proven how little he would risk his neck for the sake of his family, if his faith or honor were challenged. He had already proven it once, when the arrow had flown at his order.

While Ramza's thoughts were fluttering frantically, like a frightened flock of birds, Alma was already moving, striding off towards the estate that Ramza's comrades were all running to. She seemed just as confident, and just as unshakable, as the Inquisitor had seemed, marched in the opposite direction. How could she seem that calm, as the world fell apart around them?

How could he let her walk alone, when he was the whole reason she was in danger.

Ramza jerked out of his reverie, and hurried after his sister.


	72. Chapter 71: Siblings

(Sorry for the long delay, guys. I've moved and settled down a bit, so I should be able to return to an update schedule that's a lot more regular. Updates are going to be every two weeks from now on, still on Wednesday. If you're hungry for more content while you wait, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 71: Siblings**

She had faced an Inquisitor. She had broken his spell.

The thought played over and over again through Alma's head. A giddy grin kept flitting across her features like a bird darting quickly across a clear sky. Her heart was still racing, her skin still tingling: it was as though a fire had been ignited somewhere in her belly, and the warmth trickling through her veins fought off the chill of the gathering night effortlessly.

Hours later, and the feeling was still with her. Hurrying after Ramza's motley collection of friends (including dear, serious Agrias, who looked even more dour than she had when she'd been at Ovelia's side), quietly helping them gather their things from the Estate and then hurrying after them as Agrias led them northeast, into the mountains proper. She had been up here for training exercises in her days as a Lionsguard cadet, and remembered an old cave they should be able to shelter in.

Fleeing from Lesalia. Fleeing from Zalbaag and Dycedarg's thrall. Fleeing from the pursuit of an Inquisitor she'd fought. No more lying in wait, paying off adjutants and lieutenants and barkeeps for the dregs of information she needed, trying to piece together the larger puzzle. Dycedarg and Zalbaag had never even mentioned the fact that Ovelia had been proclaimed queen, with Delita at her side. Even Ramza had lied to her about how Teta had died. But now she had all the facts. Now she was moving towards something, even if she didn't know what. She held the reins of her own destiny.

She had faced an Inquisitor. She had broken his spell.

"Of course," Agrias sighed.

Alma looked up: Agrias was watching her with an amused smile. "Of course what?" Alma asked.

"You're the only one here who doesn't look miserable."

Alma blinked, and looked around the little cave. Alicia was standing guard outside, shrouded by magic (Alma could just make her out, a vague humanoid blur rimmed in starlight against the gathering night beyond the cave entrance). Lavian was at Agrias' side, her eyes wide and hollow. Mustadio was staring at his hands, while Ramza and Radia sat quietly on opposite sides of the cave, looking at no one in particular.

"You don't sound surprised," Alma said, looking back to Agrias.

Agrias shrugged. "I've known you for a little while now, Lady Beoulve."

"Don't call me-!" Alma started hotly, but broke off when she saw the amused smile flitting across Agrias' face. "You're making fun of me?"

"Me?" Agrias said, in mock outrage. "Never. I am a model of solemnity and duty."

Alma folded her arms across her chest. "You seem to be a in pretty good mood too, Agrias."

Agias shook her head, her smile fading. "I'm...taking comfort in the ridiculousness of our position." She gestured around their chilly cave, with the cold wind moaning just outside. "I never expected to return to this cave. Much less to escape an Inquisitor."

An Inquisitor Alma had faced. An Inquisitor whose spell Alma had broken.

"There you go again," Agrias sighed.

"Hm?" Alma looked back at Agrias.

"Still looking happy."

Alma shrugged, studying Agrias more closely. Her smile was gone, her face pale and drawn, but her eyes were still on Alma. Patient and attentive, as ever.

"Are you alright, Agrias?" Alma asked.

Agrias shook her head. "Would it not be alarming if I said I was?" Her lips twitched again. "Or would that comfort you, knowing someone felt the same way you did?"

Alma didn't know how to answer Agrias. She couldn't deny this steady current of relief and strength flowering through her, buoying her against the cold and the fear. She had been raised among the Church all her life, kept far from decisions of consequence. What little she'd managed to achieve—convincing Simon to let her join him and Ovelia on his lessons, convincing Agrias to accept her as a sparring partner—had never been enough to get her out into the world.

Here she was, in the company of men and women wanted for heresy by the Church. In the company of warriors who had faced down a Lucavi of legend.

She believed Ramza without question. Ramza may have lied to her, but that lie stood out against the record of painstaking truthfulness he'd maintained as long as she could remember. Even a child, he had been serious and responsible, always admitting to their mother (and, after she had died, their father and brothers) the moment he committed some error. She remembered how he had broken an antique flower vase in their mother's little house outside of Igros: he had gone at once to find her, and tell her what she had done.

If he said he had faced a Lucavi—a Lucavi who had sprouted from the Cardinal's body, fueled by the magic of Zodiac Stone—then she believed him. She had questions aplenty, but she believed the story, just as easily as she'd believed Ramza when he'd told her of their brothers.

She suspected she'd always seen their brothers a little more clearly than Ramza had. Ramza, ever feeling the outsider trying to shoulder burdens he was scared of carrying, had always looked upon their brothers with awe for the ease with which they handled their responsibilities. But Alma, prevented from ever touching the reins of power for all her eagerness, had had to study them more closely if she wanted to accomplish anything. She had seen the way Dycedarg would intercept problems with a quiet word, dismiss teachers who might actually advocate on Alma's behalf or keep luminaries waiting outside his office while he destroyed their projects and programs without ever giving them a chance to oppose him. It was jarring to think of Dycedarg as a murderous manipulator, but it did not really contradict what Alma knew about him.

Zalbaag was a little harder. If anything might mar Alma's excitement, it was the thought of Zalbaag giving the order that killed Teta. Neither she nor Ramza had ever been especially close to their older brothers, but she had always admired Zalbaag, who moved with martial prowess, who always seemed so confident and clear-headed and righteous. She well-remembered how he had looked cutting a path through the Death Corps soldiers in the Manor, as swift and deadly and powerful as any hero of any story.

But she had spent time with Zalbaag, here in Lesalia and at various church services across Ivalice. Zalbaag was ponderous in matters of religion but decisive in matters of action. Too decisive, in some ways. She had heard complaints among the support staff, and even an irate general blaming Zalbaag for increasing their casualties by refusing to adjust their supply lines. Once Zalbaag had decided on a course of action, it was almost impossible to convince him otherwise. So if he had been convinced that killing Teta was necessary...

Her breathing stopped, and her chest felt tight. She remembered the Manor again, the last time she'd seen Teta. She remembered the helpless look in her friend's eyes, as the man had pushed the knife against her back. She remembered how hoarse her voice was from screaming Teta's name, as Zalbaag had held her back. Zalbaag, who had given the order that killed Teta.

"Alma?" Agrias' voice was gentle but firm: Alma jerked out of her bleak memory.

"Sorry," Alma said. "Just...thinking." She tried to smile. She couldn't quite manage it.

"God help us all," Agrias replied.

The smile came this time, thought it didn't stay for long. "What do we do now?" Alma asked, looking around the cave.

"I don't know," Agrias answered. Her face had settled into solemn contemplation. "I haven't known since...well. Since Lionel."

Alma nodded slowly. Poor Agrias, faithful Lioness to an unloved Princess. Alma had always found her rather lovely. Here was a soldier, dignified as any noble knight, fierce and talented as Zalbaag, completely lacking in ambition. She had found her place, and the honor that did her was more than enough to satisfy her. She could be prickly, overly-formal, and woefully naive, but she was also one of the most fundamentally decent people Alma had ever known.

And now the one thing she wanted in life—to stand by Ovelia's side, and keep her safe—was taken from her by the plans of the Church, and Dycedarg, and Delita, and these Lucavi.

Alma nodded again, more firmly. "That's alright, Agrias," Alma said. "We'll get her back."

Agrias gave a startled laugh. "You haven't changed, Alma," she said. "But we just fled the capital city in fear of an Inquisitor. How do you intend to prove our innocence _and_ get back a...a Queen?" There was bitter pain in Agrias' voice on these last few words, mirrored by the desperation in her eyes.

But Alma had spent a long time wearing the trappings of power and never allowed near the reins. If she wanted to take action, she had to be careful. She had to hone in on the details, find the little things she could do to make a big difference. A kind word to this guard, who might pass along helpful information in idle gossip; a bottle of wine smuggled in for this monk, so he might leave this door unlocked; the magic she might learn to arm and disarm old enchantments, or the books she might read so she might impress a teacher whose approval she needed. She suspected this was an advantage she had over Ramza and Agrias—both were warriors, people who believed taking action required taking to the field with sword in hand. Alma Beoulve knew better. Alma Beoulve knew that sometimes the best action you could take was to find just the right key for just the right lock.

"I'll let you know," Alma said, rising to her feet and looking around the cave. Lavian was asleep now, her eyes closed: Ramza and Radia were still in their strange reveries. But Mustadio appeared to have come out of his: he was now busily cleaning his gun with a studious eye. Mustadio, who according to her brother had found a Stone, and escaped the grasping hands of the Church. He had done this all on his own, ignorant of the scale of the powers arrayed against him. Her brother had saved him, but only because Mustadio had made it so far on his own.

"Hi," Alma said, sitting in front of Mustadio.

Mustadio started, fumbled with his gun, almost dropped it and then caught it once more. "Uh," he started. "I...hi."

"You're Mustadio?"

"I...yeah." Mustadio's eyes flickered to Ramza.

"Don't worry about him," Alma said, quashing the candle flame of anger in her stomach (why did people always have to look to her brothers for permission to talk to her?). "I just want to talk."

"Yeah?" Mustadio said. "About what?"

"You and your dad found a Stone?"

"Oh," Mustadio looked relieved. "Yeah. You know about Goug?"

"Ydoran factory city," Ovelia said. "Devastated by the Fall, but all the old machinery's still there."

"Exactly," Mustadio said, nodding. "We found it buried in this old workshop. Helluva thing, too: think they used it to make Workers."

"Workers? The metal men?"

"That's...not quite right," Mustadio said. "I mean, yeah, they're man-shaped, but they're more like...like armor, y'know?"

"But they could fight like soldiers," Alma said.

"Sure, but..." Mustadio's mouth was twisted to one side. "Okay, you ever seen a clock with, like, figurines in it? They move in certain ways?"

"Oh!" Alma exclaimed. "So it's like that? Like clockwork?"

"Right, but way more complex than anything we could do. They used this magitek blend that basically let you change what the clockword did just by giving orders. They called it "reprogramming." They couldn't think for themselves, but they could follow almost any order you could think of."

"Oh," Alma said, and then shook her head. "Ew."

"Huh?"

"So they called them Workers because...because they followed orders." She felt disgust crawling in her throat. That was so god damn condescending.

"Oh." Mustadio frowned. "I...actually never thought of that."

"Alma." Alma looked over her shoulder at her brother, who was staring at her from his place on the wall. "What are you doing?"

"Asking questions," Alma said.

"Why?"

"Trying to figure out what we're doing next."

" _We_ are not doing anything," Ramza grunted, standing up. "Come dawn tomorrow, _you_ are going back into the city-"

"Where I can get burned as heretic!" Alma said cheerfully. "At least it'll be a toasty way to go."

Ramza shook his head. "You'll testify against me-"

"Like hell I will!" Alma snapped.

"-and in return-"

"You're not listening!" Alma rose to her own feet. "I told you, I'm not going back."

"I think she's made up her mind," Radia said, with a slight smile.

"You're not involved in this," Ramza said, not even looking at the red-headed woman.

Radia's smile vanished, replaced with a peculiar mixture of pain and rage that made Alma flinch inwardly. "No, I get it. Don't want anyone else deciding what happens to your family, right?"

Ramza's face whitened, but he still did not look at Radia. "I want to get her somewhere safe. I don't want her getting hurt for our troubles."

Radia said nothing, but nodded a fraction of an inch. Alma looked between them in confusion. She was missing something. What?

No, focus. That didn't matter right now. She was looking for the lever that would take them somewhere they could make a difference, and force them to keep her around while they did it. She wasn't going to sit around anymore, knowing what she knew.

"Listen," Alma said. "Whether I'm with you or not, you need a plan. Way better than this idea of talking to Zalbaag."

Ramza stiffened. "It was the best plan I could think of," he said, his voice brittle.

"Then you're a lot stupider than I thought," Alma retorted. "Zal almost never changes his mind, but let's say you were right, and he could, and he did. He's still just one man."

"He _is_ the commander of the Hokuten," Agrias objected.

"In name, sure," Alma replied. "And yeah, he gets the last word on a lot of military ops. But there's still other generals and other colonels and other majors who have their own influence, and that's not even getting into the fact that Dycedarg and Larg call all the political shit, or that technically the royal troops are under their own jurisdiction, and the other nobles who are in charge of their own levies..." Ovelia shook her head. "Even if he is was on your side, that's not enough. And what if it was? That doesn't mean Goltanna's gonna stop. And even if he's willing to talk, the Church might find a way to keep the fight going!"

She could see the effect her words were having: she could see Ramza tensing, getting defensive as the shortsightedness of his plan. But then she saw one of the things she loved most about Ramza—the way he forced himself to relax, to let go of his ego and ask, in a voice more curious than sarcastic, "So what do you suggest?"

"I don't know!" Alma exclaimed. "But I just know there has to be a better way! Maybe expose what the Church is doing to the right people! Convince Larg and Goltanna that this war's not good for either of'em! Make their ambition work _for_ you. But to do that, we need information!"

Ramza stared at her for a long time. Alma kept her eyes fixed on her brother's face, though she was hopeful expressions on the faces in her peripheral vision. They liked what she was saying. Did Ramza?

"Alright," Ramza sighed, and sat back against a wall. "Alright." He gestured vaguely around the room. "We could probably use your perspective."

Alma fought the triumphant smile trying to spread across her face. She nodded with all the solemnity she could muster. "Alright," she said. "Let's start with the basics. What does a Stone look like?"

Ramza and the others exchanged glances. "Beautiful," Radia said first, with a note of pain her her voice.

"Heavy," Mustadio said. Alma glanced at the man—a little older than her, a little younger than Ramza. His fervent gaze was fixed on some far-off point. "Like crystal, or..." He laughed. "Like stone. And there's this...this glow. It's like nothing I've ever seen. Like you're holding a star in your hand."

Alma stared at him. "What?"

Mustadio looked at her. "No, it's-"

"Is it round?" she asked, as the memories came flooding back. "Round and...and smooth?"

It wasn't just Mustadio: everyone else around the little fire was staring at her now. "You've seen one," Mustadio said. It wasn't a question.

Alma nodded. The memory had stayed with her, though years had past since she'd spied Father Simon holding that strange object in the ancient basement archives of Orbonne Monastery. She had caught only a glimpse of it—of a scarlet as lurid as any royal robe, as bright and vivid as the horizon at dusk. Then he had returned it to its resting place, concealed behind a clever stone wall that Alma was never able to figure out how to open, try as she might.

"Where?" Agrias asked, in an urgent whisper.

Alma opened her mouth to answer, and found the words caught in her throat. She glanced at Ramza, found him watching her as avidly as the others. But in his eyes there was something else, something she recognized. In his eyes was fear.

Pieces clicked together quickly: of what the fear in Ramza's eyes meant for her. She'd been able to persuade him she was better off here, for the moment—his urge to get her to safety was warring with his fear of what Dycedarg would do for the sake of power. But she remembered the fear and pain in his voice as he'd recounted his confrontation with Cuchulainn. He wouldn't want her anywhere near such monsters.

And wasn't that the smart thing? Shouldn't she fear to face a Lucavi that could spring from the body of a man as pious as the Cardinal? But she wasn't. Her heart was racing, but not with fear. Like Agrias had said, she was excited. After years spent asking questions that no one could answer, she was free and in motion. Ovelia, Delita, and Ramza all worked in the world, looking for answers, taking risks to try and fix it. Alma was tired of being left out.

"I'm not telling you," Alma said. "I'm showing you."

Ramza's face whitened. "Absolutely not."

"Good luck, then." Alma folded her arms across her chest.

The little cave was silent, all eyes flickering between Ramza and Alma. When Ramza spoke next, there was a coldness in his voice that Alma had never heard before. It made her throat thick with guilt. "You have no idea what you're asking. You have no idea what we're facing, or what we're trying to do. You have no idea how dangerous it is. The only reason you're asking this is ignorance. And if you refuse to tell us out of some childish belief that you deserve to be here, you're not just hurting us. You're not just hurting yourself. You're hurting everyone we might help."

Alma hadn't known her brother could sound like that. But she kept her cool: her arms stayed folded across her chest, and she met her Ramza's gaze (not a glare, just a persistent stare, full of judgment and disappointment) steadily. "By refusing me," Alma asked. "Aren't you just as guilty?"

Silence again. Ramza stared unblinking into her eyes. She stared unblinking back.

"We need the lead, Ramza," Mustadio said.

"We already have two Stones," Ramza retorted. "We don't need a third."

"And for the Stones we have, they declared us heretics," Radia said. "What might they do if we lay hands on a third?"

"Delita said as much, did he not?" Agrias asked. "Even discounting the...the demon." Her voice trembled slightly. "The Stones matter. If we take a third, who knows what the Church might offer to keep our silence?"

"Who knows what they might bring against us, to make sure we don't talk?" Ramza snapped.

"I think we can handle it," Lavian said softly, looking towards the entrance of the cave and then back to Ramza. "But if we can't, I still think it's worth trying."

Ramza's jaw clenched. His eyes closed, and he shook his head. "I...I don't..."

"It's my choice," Alma said, with all the conviction and fury and regret she felt having had to sit on her hands all these years. "And I want to fight."

Ramza was silent for a long time, his eyes still closed, his mouth pressed shut and working as though he were whispering to himself. Alma watched him unblinking, not sure what he might say.

"Alright," he said at last. "Alright."

Alma's heart leapt in her chest. "I can come?"

Ramza nodded, his eyes still closed. "But you do exactlywhat we tell you too." He opened his eyes at last, and Alma felt a bolt of cold hit her heart. There was terrible pain in her brother's eyes, and terrible fear. She had seen him crying just a few short hours ago, but she had not imagined Ramza could look so old, or so forlorn. "I won't have you be another Teta."

Hot words burned on the tip of Alma's tongue. She had not slipped Dycedarg's leash just to wear Ramza's. She had the knowledge they needed. She would call the shots.

Almost, she spoke these words, before she remembered. How Teta had looked, hopeless and horrified as the chocobo had sprinted away into the gathering dusk. Alma's stomach and face had ached where she'd been struck, but nothing compared to the sharp, sundering pain in her heart. How much worse would it feel, to lose Ramza? Would Ramza not feel the same, if Alma herself were lost."

"Alright," Alma said. "It's at Orbonne."

There was a long, strange silence in the room. Ramza, Radia, Agrias, and Lavian stared at her.

"What the hell are you guys yelling about?" Alicia asked, stumbling inside and shaking the snow from her cloaked shoulders. There was a curious fluttering noise as the snow hit the ground, almost like birds' wings.

"There's a Zodiac Stone at Orbonne," Lavian said, in a flat, broken voice.

Alicia stared at Lavian. She looked around the room, searching for a hint of a joke. "You've got to be fucking kidding me."


	73. Chapter 72: Duty

(Pair of Malak/Barinten chapters here. Barinten chapter will drop next week. If you're hungry for more content while you wait, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 72: Duty**

"Breathe, Mal. Breathe."

He wanted to, but even Rafa's voice and her cool hand upon his brow could not soothe him now. Every breath was agony: it scorched down his throat like the winds of the Zeklaus desert, leaving him gasping for air and water. He was shaking and shuddering with it, sweat pooling at the base of his back so his tunic clung to him, his fingers digging in the dirt at his side as fevered pain crawled along his skin. The heat inside him and the cold snow around him was a debilitating contrast.

"It's okay, Mal," Rafa whispered. "It's okay."

Even with their special preparations, even with Clara weaving spells to prolong the effect of the Blood, Malk should have jumped ship hours ago. The poor bird itself could barely fly towards the end, and Malak had felt its weakness and pain echoing across his own form. Huddled in the snow outside the cave, burning inside as it froze outside, clinging to ragged, desperate life because Malak needed more information.

But he had what he needed. Before the bird had burned, it had heard what Alma Beoulve had had to say.

"Orbonne," Malak croaked.

Rafa stiffened. "What?"

"Orbonne," Malak said again. Saint above, every syllable was sandpaper rasping across his throat. He swallowed and tried again, his body still shuddering. "That's...what they said. A Stone...at Orbonne."

Clara, dozing under a blanket from her huddled place in the corner of their little valley between hills, jerked her head up. "The Monastery?"

Malak tried to nod, and couldn't manage it: his head jerked erratically, his brain trying to give signals to the wrong body. Normally using the Blood was instinctive, simple orders given that the animal he put his blood inside could translate into its own commands. But the longer he spent in a body, the more it felt like his, even as it burned and melted and died. He thought the rat had been bad, butt it was nothing compared to the bird.

"Y...yes," Malak rasped, cursing his clumsy tongue. "H...his sister..."

Rafa nodded. "She was a student there. She saw a Stone."

"S-s-so...s-she s-s-says." He hated the stutter. He hated his weakness. He was the trusted leader of the Grand Duke's Hand, and now he lacked the strength to stand.

"How's our birdbrained leader?" asked a creaking voice. Malak's head twitched towards the source: from the corner of his eye, he could just make out the hobbling figure of a wizened old man making his precarious way down the slope of a hill, his figure concealed behind a heavy cloak. Light and shadow rippled, and Berkeley walked cheerfully upright, spinning their knob-headed cane in one hand. They carried a heavy sack over one shoulder.

"Food and medicine," they said, tossing the bag on the ground near Malak. "Something good for cramps and shakes, plus something to dull the pain."

"You could give it to him," Rafa huffed.

Light and shadow rippled again, and the old man quivered upon his cane. "But it is so cold," he lamented. "And I have already walked so far. Please, poor child-"

"Fine," grunted Rafa, pulling a green vial out of the bag and shaking it vigorously. She put the vial to Malak's lips: he closed his eyes as the thick, bitter liquid oozed across his tongue, and struggled not to gag. They had plenty of gil, but he was supposed to be a leader, and he would not waste the medicine. Berkeley might make light, but it was a fair trek back to Lesalia as a fresh blizzard blew up, and it was a trek they only needed to make so Malak's connection with the bird remained secure. If he were stronger, none of this would be necessary.

There was a tense moment when the liquid felt too thick in Malak's throat, and he thought he might vomit it all up. Then in one swallow the moment passed, and Malak instantly felt a little steadier. There was a chalky coating in his mouth and throat, but the trembling had stopped, and he could breathe a little easier.

"Thank you," he sighed. Rafa tucked the blanket around his shoulders. Malak didn't bother protesting: when he overused the Blood like this, and over such distances, he was prone to weakness. He needed to rest if he was to lead properly.

"We got info?" Berkeley asked, melting back into their usual form.

"There's a Stone at Orbonne," Rafa said. "That's where they're heading."

"Oh, man!" Berkeley clapped his hands together. "That's a helluva lead."

"Doesn't begin to cover it, does it," murmured Clara, her voice drowsy.

"Sleeping already, Clarabelle?" Berkeley asked.

"I'm tired," grumbled Clara.

"Looks like what you did to the Blood worked," Rafa observed.

"Maybe," Clara said doubtfully. "He doesn't look so good."

Malak sat up a little, in spite of his dizziness. "M'fine, Clara. Couldn't have done it without you."

"Did more than me," Berkeley said, with a note of self-loathing. "All those people, and I couldn't-"

"Couldn't what?" Rafa asked. "They left town. How were you supposed to tail them? You can only change your shape to other people, Berk. Were you supposed to hide behind a tree?"

Berkeley's mouth twisted. "Couldn't tail the Inquisitor either, could I?"

"And shouldn't," Malak said, laying back down. "Templar magic is not to be trifled with. Shapeshifters are rare, Berk, but they aren't unknown, and if there's anyone who could catch one-"

"Right," Berkeley said, in a voice more doubtful than Clara's. Malak didn't bother to reassure them. Clara had pushed herself to her limits, but Berkeley might have found another way to get them, information, and it was always good to consider if such a thing were possible. It would make them all better soldiers.

And they needed to be better, given the scale of the forces involved here.

Their mission had already been strange enough—tracking a Beoulve bastard implicated in the death of a Cardinal and following his course a scant few miles behind the lines of the war. Now an Inquisitor was involved. An Inquisitor of inarguable power, based on that display back at the orchard. An Inquisitor could call upon local constables, on knightly orders and governmental forces, on the personal soldiers of fiefs both major and minor. An Inquisitor could mobilize the Templars, and move openly across Ivalice, in pursuit of their target. He could capture and execute Ramza before they learned anything.

The Hand could fail.

The fear of failure hurt Malak worse than his time in the bird. It did not leave nauseous and weak: instead it left him sinking inside himself, thoughts chasing each other in self-recriminating loops. Should they have taken Ramza and his company before they reached the city? No, too risky, they were always grouped up, and the Hand was good but not so good they could take them all without wounds and Malak would not fritter away his friends on such a conflict. Perhaps they should have taken Ramza himself when he had been alone in Lesalia? But he had never been alone: he was always with or near Hokuten functionaries, and anyways abducting a Beoulve from the capital would have been too risky, and-

And all these practical reassurances did not mask the larger weight pressing against his soul. Barinten had trusted him with this mission. Barinten believed they could find the information that would let him claim his rightful place, and spread his cautious benevolence across Ivalice. And for the first time Malak really felt like he might fail in his duty. That hee would fail the man who had cared for him. That he would fail the others, the men and women of Ivalice who would be saved if Barinten's hands could hold the reins of power.

He drowsed, haunted by fever-visions of failure—of his friends hurt, or of Ramza in the clutches of the Church, or of a war that consumed more and more of Ivalice and left more orphans in its wake without men like Barinten to care for them. He drifted into uneasy consciousness as Clara awoke and set out to patrol the hilltops. Berkeley asleep besides the fire, where Rafa tended to a little pot. She ladled broth into a bowl and it to Malak. He sipped at the thin soup and was pleased to find his hands no longer trembled. He drained the bowl, stood a little clumsily, and found his legs supported him.

"We've taken too long," Malak said.

"We took as long as we had to," Rafa said. "And we know where they're going."

Yes, that was something. For all his resources, the Inquisitor would have to track Ramza and his company the old-fashioned way. The Hand could head straight for the Monastery. Hell, since they were a smaller group, they might even beat Ramza and his friends there, if thy were careful.

"We might have to run interference," Rafa continued thoughtfully. "If pursuit gets too close to Ramza, before we're ready to act."

Yes, but act how? How could they serve the trust that Barinten had placed in them? Clarice had already used her vile of Blood to contact him yesterday, informing him that they were to continue on their mission and be cautious of attracting further attention. She was to rendezvous with them here two days from now.

But Malak wasn't sure they could wait two more days. The Inquisitor's involvement posed new questions. Was he a part of the Church activity they had seen? Or a conspiracy of demons, as Ramza claimed?

Ramza's argument with the Inquistor lingered in Malak's mind. The Cardinal, turned into the demon by the magic of the Zodiac Stone. Was such a thing possible? But how? Members of Khamja spent as much time researching as they did training, learning new techniques or getting a better understanding of potential foes. They all had a basic grounding in magic, techniques, and legends from many nations. And of course, any who grew up beneath the auspices of the Glabados Church would hear of the Lucavi who had corrupted the Ydoran Empire, before Ajora and his Disciples rose to challenge them with Stones in hand.

But everything implied the Lucavi were myth, conventional enemies made to look absolutely evil so Saint Ajora could seem an absolute good. And nothing Malak had ever read pointed to a connection between the legendary Stones and the Lucavi they had been used against. So was Ramza lying? And if so, why that particular lie.

Too many questions, and too much uncertain.

"Clarice contacted me too soon," Malak whispered. "We need to get word to the Duke."

Rafa nodded. "We'll send Clarice back when she-"

"No," Malak said. "The Inquisitor changes things. We'll need Berkeley to trace them now, Clarice to track them later, and Clara to give us breathing room if things go wrong."

Rafa was silent for a moment. "You don't mean-" she started.

"I needed you here in case we needed to capture Ramza," Malak said. "At the moment, that no longer seems possible."

"And if you fight the Inquisitor? Or the Templars?" Rafa demanded. "Sending me back-"

"Sending you back is the only choice I have," Malak said. "You're the fastest of us."

"Not if you send a bird!"

"Look at me, Raf!" Malak snapped, gesturing down at his still-feeble body. "Serious use of the Blood right now is..." He shook his head. "I can't do it. I want you here, but..."

"Don't send me back, Mal." Rafa's voice was low, unsteady, pleading.

Malak hesitated. Truth be told, he didn't want to send her back. She had cared for him, steadied him, made him feel equal to the chaos they faced. It had been a long time since they'd spent more than a night apart. More than that, he understood his sister's reluctance to go. He knew she wanted to be here, on the front lines, where they could best serve Barinten.

But serving the Duke required sacrifices from all of them.

"Barinten has to know what's happened," Malak said. "I'll have Clara prepare one of her seplls for you. If you use your magic sparingly and forego the roads, you might be there before just after Clarice rejoins us, and we can get a better sense of what we should do. It's the best way to serve the Duke, Raf."

"I don't want to serve him!" Rafa cried.

Malak stared at her. Something inside him felt colder than the night air, and hotter than the flames that had devoured the last bird. "What did you say?" he asked, and he could hear the cold and the fire in his own voice.

Rafa was pale, her lips pressed into a thin line. "I just mean...I..." She shook her head. "I...can't keep you safe...or anyone, and...and the Duke..."

Fire and frost alike dimmed a little, but Malak still watched his sister warily. The way her voice had sounded, so shrill and pained...it brought to mind again that day when she had smashed through soldiers and walls in her hysterical attempt on the Duke. But she looked calm enough, present enough. And if some ghost of her old nightmares troubled her, shouldn't he reassure her? He wasn't just her commander, after all; he was her brother.

Fire and frost alike were gone. Now he was just looking at his sister, trying to figure out what he wanted to say to her.

"I don't want you to go, Raf," he said. "I want you here. You keep us all safe." He let his fear and doubt creep into his voice now, because if he couldn't be honest with Rafa who could he be honest with? "But the Duke has to know what we're facing. He has to make this call. You're our best chance of getting word to him quickly, without losing our quarry. It has to be you. Otherwise, we...we're not doing our duty."

Rafa was silent, her head bowed so her hair concealed hear features. She nodded a fraction of an inch. "I know."

Malak smiled, and put his hands on his sister's shoulders. "Thank you, Rafa," he said. "I couldn't do this without you."

Rafa offered another fractional nod and pulled away from him, heading back to her pack. Malak watched her with a little ache in his heart.

But it was for the best. She could move faster than anyone but Clarice, and right now they needed every advantage they had if they were to outrun the Inquisitor, and do their duty.

Malak was afraid, but fear was a tool, and he would use that fear to drive him on.


	74. Chapter 73: Risk and Reward

(TRIGGER WARNING: ABUSE, SEXUAL ASSAULT If you're hungry for more content while you wait, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 73: Risk and Reward**

Sipping from a glass of brandy, Barinten considered what Rafa had told him. His green silk robe, loosely tied, was heavy with sweat, clinging uncomfortably to his back. He tried his best to ignore it.

"An Inquisitor," he said. "And a Lucavi."

"Yes...yes, my lord." Rafa's voice was taut behind him.

Barinten nodded, taking another sip of brandy, staring out at the encroaching woods that demarcated the boundary between the grounds of Riovanes and the surrounding countryside. There were fields and villages beyond those forests, but far from his borders. Riovanes was meant to be a fortress, and Barinten had no intention of compromising his security. The thick woods served such a purpose. If an army wanted to march on Riovanes, they would have to take the narrow Ydoran road that led through the marshlands.

But that security was not at stake now. It could not help him find the time he needed, to think of a way to exploit this.

Clarice had already fed him some fascinating morsels—Olan Durai intruding upon his Hand, and Ramza's suspicions of the Church. The fact that it was Olan Durai himself left Barinten in an uncomfortable position. He doubted this was an espionage operation fully sanctioned by the Nanten, or there would have been more spies in play. But the fact that the son of the Thundergod was watching his hand was gravely concerning. Still, Ramza had knowledge they needed, so Barinten had passed along instructions to his Hand, to continue tailing Ramza.

But Rafa's information changed things. An Inquisitor hunting Ramza Beoulve? An Inquisitor Ramza tried to allay by informing him the Cardinal had turned into a Lucavi?

The latter story was unbelievable...and yet, something had happened in Lionel, which had ended with the Cardinal and Geoffrey Gaffagrion dead and much of the castle devastated. But then, if Zodiac Stones were involved, who new what other high-level magic might be in play? Auracite was no myth: anyone who researched the Ydorans closely enough would find allusions to the powerful substance at the heart of many Ydoran designs. It had fueled the foundries where the Workers had been built: it had powered the aerial dreadnoughts with which the Ydorans had devastated their enemies; it had been the critical ingredient in a dozen magics now impossible, since the Fall.

But intriguing as the question of the Stones was, Barinten needed to focus on the Inquisitor. Ramza Beoulve might be a minor son, but his family was one of the most prominent in Ivalice, and any accusation of heresy would impugn Dycedarg, Zalbaag, and the Hokuten as a whole. A dangerous move, that: the Knight-Commander of the Hokuten and Larg's closest adivsor were not men it was wise to provoke.

And Inquisitor Zalmour was no fool—he was one of the highest-ranking Inquisitors, with decades of training and experience. He had come up in the same generation as old Simon himself. For him to pursue a Beoulve implied either tremendous confidence or tremendous desperation. Barinten wasn't certain which was in play here. Perhaps both?

"I am glad you brought me this information, Rafa," Barinten mused. "Malak was right to send you."

"Thank you, my lord." Rafa was breathing a little easier. Hm. Should he tend to that? A low flicker of warmth stirred in his groin, tossing embers up into his belly.

But he had not maintained his power by putting pleasure before business, and there was still business at hand. Because the Inquisitor had moved on Ramza, and would be tracking him. The Inquisitor might not know where Ramza was going, but he didn't have to. With his connections, someone would see something, and bring authority down on Ramza's head. It was only a matter of time.

He had to act quickly. But how to act? His Khamja were sought-after, but sending them to pursue a heretic when Goltanna and Larg alike called for support in war would not be viewed kindly by either side. Perhaps he could send out a few squads to either force? No, no, too risky if he was discovered, he would be an enemy to both. Ally with the Hokuten and join their forces while moving freely behind the lines? Tempting, but then he would be committed, for better or for worse, and what if Ramza managed to cross the battle lines?

The Hand remained his best hope, but while they were capable, they not invincible. He was glad Malak had gotten him word of this latest development, glad he had not plunged heedlessly into danger. But Barinten did not know what order to give here. He did not know what course the Hand should take.

"Well, let's see," hummed Barinten, turning to face Rafa with brandy in hand. "What would you do, dear Rafa?"

Rafa lay where she was upon the table, hands and feet bound in rune-laden chains to a post at each corner so she was spread-eagled before him. Almost too tall for it, now; her naked body had hints of a woman's curves, no longer the deceptive slip of a girl he'd salvaged her from the Orphanage. A few of his tools, all magical in nature, lay on a smaller table near her right foot.

"My lord," Rafa said, her voice still taut, her mouth a thin line beneath her blindfolded eyes. "I am not the leader of the Hand, and Malak was more lost than I."

"You're not being coy with me, are you, Rafa?"

Rafa flinched: the chains around her wrists and ankles shuddered with white sparks, and Rafa gave a hiss of pain and held herself very still.

"I'm waiting, Rafa."

"N-no, my lord," Rafa said in a rush. "I suggested that we rendezvous with Clarice and press on with the full strength of the Hand since we know where they're headed and could beat them there maybe secure the Stone at Orbonne leverage it to get more information-"

"That's quite enough."

Rafa fell silent. Barinten pursed his lips. "A direct plan," admitted Barinten. "Quite to your strengths, eh, Rafa?"

"Yes, my lord.

"And it has its advantages," Barinten continued. "This is what the Hand is for, after all. Perhaps they can secure some information before the Inquisitor realizes we chase the same target."

Ah, but something about it still didn't sit right with him. Far too much risk. Ramza's company counted capable, unusual warriors among them, and an Inquisitor would have allies of similar merit. A fight between them could see his soldiers wounded, maimed, or dead. Barinten had spent too much time training the Hand: he could not afford to commit them if it was not worth it. But then, what remained?

Barinten turned back to his window, and set his glass of brandy down. With the other hand, he fingered the fresh vial of Devil's Blood that Rafa had brought back for him. She was, of course, forbidden to use it—besides the fact that her body's natural resilience could have peculiar effects upon Malak, Barinten had also assured them that it might poison one or both of them. Malak would trust him implicitly: Rafa knew better than to defy him. And Barinten had spent some time training his mind after researching the Blood. He knew he could control his thoughts.

He popped open the cap and took half a swig, grimacing at the thick salt oozing down his throat. He swallowed and closed his eyes, popping the cap back on. Calming his mind, envisioning nothing, waiting...

A tingling across his scalp, behind his eyes.

 _My liege._

 _Malak. Thank you for sending me word. You have enlightened me._

 _No, my liege, I should not have needed to consult you, I should have-_

 _It was wise that you did so, Malak, and I need you to trust those instincts. We require a more cautious tack now._

 _What is your will, my lord?_

 _Continue to shadow the Beoulve, but do not engage unless you have a decisive advantage. And do not assume the Beoulve is your only target._

 _My lord?_

 _Perhaps one of the Inquisitor's men will make a move. Perhaps you may beat the Beoulve to the Monastery and interrogate Simon. Perhaps a Templar shall stray too far from the pack, or a Hokuten dignitary wander far afield, or Olan Durai intrude upon you again and not escape so easily. If you see a chance worth taking, take it. I trust your judgment, Malak. I know you will not fail me._

 _Never, my lord!_

Barinten nodded, conveying his approval and a need for haste. He waited for the tingling to fade away. But the connection remained steady.

 _Was there something else, Malak?_

 _Yes, my lord. I wanted to ask after Rafa. She seemed quite weary-_

Barinten smiled, and conjured up a memory: Rafa, robed and asleep in a plush bed, curled beneath a comforter with her head resting upon plump pillows. _She is being cared for as she deserves, Malak. As soon as she is rested, I will have her meet you in Gariland._

 _Thank you, my lord. We will not fail you._

This time the connection faded away. Barinten waited for it to pass, then turned and started walking towards Rafa, untying his robe as he went and letting it drop to the floor behind him He stopped by her feet, his fingers trailing across the tools upon the table, until they came to rest on a long metal rod etched with runes that ended in two forked tines. A clever piece, this: once it had been an artifact of healing, used to numb nerves during surgery. But the same magic that numbed nerves could make them flare with pain, all while leaving no marks in their wake. Best of all, Rafa's invulnerability could not protect her from sensation.

"Your brother wished me to finish caring for you, dear Rafa," he said, and relished the pain on her face, the stiffness in her shoulders as she held herself still against her chains. She must always remember what he could do to her. She must always remember that all her strength and skill were nothing before him. She must never, even once, think to turn her fists against him.

He took such care with her, as he had taken with the Hand, and as he would take with all Ivalice, once he had the tools he needed.

"Let's finish your lesson."


	75. Chapter 74: Roads Not Taken

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 **Chapter 74: Roads Not Taken**

 _...Count Orlandeau's breakthrough at Duguera Pass is largely considered a diversionary measure. The Thundergod led an elite force in a breakthrough mission that cut the Hokuten to pieces and harassed the soldiers sent to drive him back, drawing reinforcements from the southern lines to weaken them for Marquis' Elmdor fatal charge._

 _The long battle at Duguera is already a master-class in guerrilla tactics. But rumors persist that more was achieved in the Duguera battle than is a matter of record—that small units of soldiers loyal to the Nanten took root behind the Hokuten lines, and Nanten spies were retrieved so their information could inform future campaigns. A good reminder, this: the official story, or the popular consensus, cannot always be trusted. Things are not always what they appear._

 _-Alazlam Durai, "Guest Lecture to the Lesalian Royal College"_

The blizzard had faded into chance flurries by the end of their first night camped in the cave, but the air was bitterly cold when they soldiered out into the teeth of winter, trying to reach Orbonne Monastery across the rocky mountainside.

The distant sounds of battle still reached them from time to time as they marched across the frostbitten Leslian landscape. They stayed well-off the main roads, fearful of the Inquisition, or Barinten's assassins, or the dozen other enemies that might assail them. So they trekked carefully across the slopes, up and down the rolling hills that ensconced the towns and roads of Lesalia as they struggled to reach Gallione again.

They were not always alone upon their harder track: lone travelers, desperate families, and even small packs of roving bandits would sometimes appear on distant hilltops. Ramza and his friends always held their weapons close when they encountered these strangers, and those that were armed clutched their own weapons close in turn. But anyone traveling these treacherous hills had their own grim reasons for doing so, and they would give each other a wide berth as they passed on their separate ways.

So cold, fear, and exhaustion were their constant companions on the way to Orbonne again. Yet in spite of these things, it was one of the happiest journeys Ramza could remember taking. And the reason for this happiness was unmistakably Alma.

Ramza could not fully understand the effect his sister was having upon them. He wanted to deny it every time he saw her. She did not belong here: like Teta and Ovelia before her, she was caught up in something bigger than she was, and the shadow of a blade hung over her head. He wanted her gone, safe in Lesalia or Igros.

But for all his fears, he saw how she buoyed Mustadio's spirits. On their trudging walks or around the fire at night, she asked probing questions about the most minuscule matters of Ydoran forging and industry, surprising Mustadio with her insight. Soon enough she was helping him tinker with his gun, contributing what she knew of Ydoran magic and lore.

And she knew more than Ramza would have credited, enough that soon she and Lavian were working together on new spell designs, trying to incorporate Inquisitor and Templars incantations into Lavian's defensive wards. And of course, if Lavian was involved, so was Alicia, studying the wards, testing them with her own spells, suggesting improvements and teaching Alma the basics of her own offensive arts.

At every turn, Ramza wanted to protest. At every turn, he wanted to snap at his sister for insinuating herself into his group, for not keeping to herself. And at every turn, Ramza stopped himself. The main reason was that he knew he couldn't trust that feeling. He knew that part of what was driving him was fear. Not even fear of what would happen to Alma: he remembered. the last time his traveling companions had been this happy. He remembered those days before Lionel—and, farther back, those days fighting the Death Corps, before there had been blood on his hands. Ramza couldn't trust that happiness. He knew what always followed.

But even if he couldn't trust the happiness, he was happy. As happy as the others, because Alma was just as kind to him as she was to everyone else.

On the road, she'd ask him questions—not just about where they were going, but about where he'd been before. About his time as a mercenary, or his conversations with Ovelia and Delita. About what Argus had done, before and after they had parted ways at the Beoulve Manor. About Ramza's time at the Academy, and a hundred other things. And as he had before, Ramza found her empathetic, attentive, and insightful. As before, Ramza found she opened his world.

That alone would have made her worth traveling with, but Ramza had also forgotten the great pleasure of helping his sister solve the world. They talked about Zalbaag's campaigns and Dycedarg's maneuvers, and for all her brilliance Alma had too little knowledge and every time Ramza could enlighten her about this bit of strategy or this diplomatic tidbit he found it gratifying. They talked about her time at Orbonne, and her time at the Preparatory Academy. They talked about their childhood in their mother's house. They talked about the Manor, and Balbanes, and Teta.

The days were cold, and hard, and filled with fear, and Razma felt happy. He couldn't help himself.

The hills were gentler when they camped for the evening several days after departing the cave. As usual, Agrias was forcing them to run combat drills while Mustadio prepared dinner, making sure there skills didn't rust as they marched. Lavian, Alicia, Ramza, and Alma were working together on an experimental piece of magic near the fire.

"-but we know it's possible!" Alma was arguing. "The Ydorans had whole divisions-"

"Thanks to special bloodlines!" Lavian countered. "Magic is constantly at work beneath you;r skin. Hardening it like armor, it's a great idea, but it requires very specific conditions to be realized!

"But Mage Knights do it with their swords," Ramza pointed out. "And Vampire Knights can manipulate their auras. Surely you could do both."

"You can also learn to loose an arrow while swinging a sword," grunted Alicia. "But doing so is absurdly difficult and mostly impractical, unless you're performing tricks."

They were interrupted by a suddeny flurry of metallic _clangs_. They all looked towards the source of the noise—Agrias and Radia, blades locked together, flickers of light and force swirling around their swords.

"Has either of them _won_ yet?" Lavian asked.

"Oh, leave them alone," Alma said. Her eyes were fixed upon them, a wide smile on her face. "They're beautiful."

Agrias swung a heavy sword that cracked like thunder: Radia swept to one side, drove Agrias back with one, two, three quick jabs. All the while, the air around her flickered, and Agrias seemed a little slower.

"Captain Agrias will win," Alicia said, though her voice was taut.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Ramza answered.

Agrias was so slow now, her parries sluggish, her steps stumbling. Radia closed the gap between them-

Suddenly Agrias' sword slashed with redoubled force. A thumping impact shook the ground beneath Ramza and the others: Radia was flung backwards, skidding upon the ground and collapsing back so she stared up at the sky.

"Told you," Alicia said.

"Are you alright?" Agrias asked, striding towards Radia

"Saint Above!" Radia gasped, sitting up and glaring at Agrias. "How could you possibly have that much strength left in you!"

"Training," Agrias answered, pulling Radia to her feet. "Besides, your control over your field is no better than mine."

Radia grimaced. "Been training since I was ten. I think I'm pretty good."

"And I have been training since I was six," Agrias said. "Besides which, you and your father both used your tricks on me. You thought I wouldn't learn how to get around them?"

Radia grunted, but said nothing. It was Alma who spoke: "Can I try?"

Ramza looked back at his sister. Between the women in the party, they'd managed to cobble together some clothing for her—an old pair of Radia's leather jerkins', one of Lavian's shirts that hung too big on until they'd tied it off with a bit of cord. Alma's hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her eyes were fixed on Radia.

"Sure, spar after I already got my ass kicked." Radia shot a questioning glance at Ramza.

"Don't look at him!" Alma snapped. "I'm the one asking!"

But Radia kept her eyes on Ramza. Was this the longest she'd looked at him since the night at Daravon's estate? He didn't know how to feel about that. He didn't know how to read her expression.

"If you feel like getting your ass kicked, I'm not going to stop you," Ramza said.

Alma nodded, a little smile on her face. "Agrias, let me borrow your sword."

"Absolutely not.""

Alma's head snapped towards the other woman. "Agrias!"

"I remember what happened to Simon's wand," Agrias replied.

"How could I break a sword?"

"I'm sure you would find a way."

"Here," Ramza said, grabbing his long sword from its place by the fire and handing it to Alma. Her hands closed on the hilt, dropped a little beneath the unexpected weight, then grew firm in their grip. She unsheathed the sword and gave it a few experimental slashes. Ramza was surprised to see that she handled it rather well. She was a little clumsy and a little ungainly, but no more so than some of the other Cadets at the Academy had been.

She stepped towards Radia. They moved away from the camp, circled each other once, then met in a flurry of blows. Alma was slower than Radia, her footing uncertain, her position a little tenuous, but nevertheless she was able to deflect almost every one of Radia's strikes. There was the telltale flicker of the Draining Blade: a moment later, the ring on Alma's finger flared, and a wall of light hammered out near Radia's legs. Radia staggered backwards, cutting through the light before it could knock her off her feet. They faced each other again.

"This is not your first time with a sword," Radia observed, circling Alma warily.

Alma shrugged, a secret smile playing with her lips. "I've spent a long time out of Dyce and Zal's supervision. I picked up a few things from friendly teachers."

"Things you are _supposed_ to keep quiet," Agrias grunted, her arms folded across her broad chest.

Ramza turned in astonishment. "You?"

Agrias' cheeks were slightly flushed. "She is a Beoulve. Fighting is in her blood. It seemed a waste-"

"Not to mention," Alicia noted wryly. "Me and Lav ain't much at swordplay."

"Perhaps with practice-" Agrias began.

"We'll never know!" Alicia said cheerfully.

Agrias huffed and looked away.

"Hang on," Radia said, her brow furrowed as she looked at Agrias. "I thought you wouldn't teach Ovelia?"

Agria's cheeks reddened further. "Ovelia is..." A fleeting look of pain crossed her face. She took a deep breath. " _Was_ ," she continued. "A royal Princess."

"And an unpopular one," Alma added. She and Radia had stopped circling each other, and were looking back at the group.

Agrias nodded. "They were always on the lookout for reasons to scorn her further. A woman of _my_ station might be fit to bear a sword-" There was a wry, sardonic twist to her voice that Ramza hadn't known she was capable of. "-but they could _never_ allow their Princess to disgrace the royal line that way. Never mind that her father was one of the finest soldiers the kingdom had ever known..." Agrias trailed off, glowering at no one in particular.

"A perfectly sensible policy," sighed Alma, rolling her eyes in turn. "After all, you spend so much time training these noble girls in magic, why would you ever need them on the battlefield? Magic never made much difference."

Lav frowned. "What's she-?"

"Sarcasm, Lav," Alicia interjected.

"Oh," Lavian said, in a small, embarrassed voice.

"But you do have a knack for it, Alma," Agrias said. She glanced at Ramza. "I only gave her a few lessons."

"And her stance is that good?" Ramza asked in surprised.

Agrias nodded, looking back to Alma. "I never understood why you hadn't been trained."

Alma rolled her eyes again. "Where was I supposed to go? You know better than I do that the Military Academy doesn't accept female cadets."

Agrias grimaced. "Fools that they are."

Alma nodded. "So Father would have had to hire me a tutor. And that wasn't part of the plan. I was supposed to go the Preparatory Academy, and be a proper noble lady." She made her voice sound as snooty as possible for this last bit.

Ramza felt an odd, defensive tension clenching somewhere in his chest. "Well," he started, and hated that he could hear that tension in his voice. "I'm sure Father meant well-"

"I'm sure he did too," Alma said. "Doesn't make him right."

The tension in his chest thrummed painfully, a spasming ache like a cramping muscle. Alma glanced at him, then back to Radia. "Come on, I still want to try!"

Alma and Radia set to sparring again: Ramza walked away, trying to sort out his muddled thoughts. He found a hillside a little ways from their camp, and took a seat against the cold ground.

Happy. He was happy. He hadn't wanted Alma here, but he was glad she'd come. He felt better than he had since he'd found out Delita still lived. He felt alive. Even Radia was talking to him again.

But his father couldn't have been wrong. He simply couldn't. Ramza carried his father's last words with him wherever he went. Justice and Service. The words were his. His to live by. He had failed so often, but he never wanted to stop trying. He owed his father that.

His father couldn't be wrong. But neither could Alma. Look at how she'd handled that sword! And that little flair of magic with which she'd tripped Radia? Ramza had only seen Dyce fight on a few occasions, and it was just like that—the savvy interplay of magic and metal in equal parts. Alma had gotten that good without the devoted training given to Dyce.

And Alma wasn't just a talented amateur at fighting. In Igros and Lesalia, she'd been able to track Ramza down within hours. Her magical skills were sharp enough to break an Inquisitor's spell. On every front, she demonstrated talent and political savvy. She could have been as prominent as Dycedarg, if only...

If only Father had allowed her.

It was a mistake. Alma was right, it was as clear as day. Look at how powerful Agrias and Radia were. Look at the battles fought in Ovelia's name. Who knew what Alma could be, given her name and brains and skills? But father had seen her to the Preparatory School. It was a school that taught noblewomen the finer points of social graces and managing a household. It was not meant for warriors and leaders.

Alma wasn't either. But she could have been. She still could be. And Balbanes Beoulve, of all men, could have set her on this path earlier. Why hadn't he?

"Hey."

Ramza looked up. Alma was walking towards him, her hair sticking to the sweat on her forehead.

"Hey," Ramza answered.

Alma took a seat next to him. "Your girlfriend kicked my ass."

"She's not my..." Ramza trailed off, shook his head. "You handled yourself well."

"Not well enough."

Ramza snorted. "No, of course not," he grunted. "Learn Inquisitorial magic, learn swordplay from a Mage Knight, learn how to draw the way you draw, and you're still not satisfied."

Alma flushed. "Shut up," she mumbled, nudging him with her shoulder.

"I don't understand how you had time for it all."

Alma laughed. "What was I supposed to focus on? Manners and the good book?" Her smile darkened. "I used to, you know. Do what I was told."

Ramza managed to smile. "Hey," he said. "Me too."

Alma laughed again, though it was shorter and sharper than her last laugh. "I'm still mad at you."

Ramza nodded. "I know."

"You should have taken me with you."

Ramza sighed. "Alma, I-"

"Maybe not right away," Alma amended. "But you didn't...why didn't you tell me at Igros? Why didn't you tell me when I found you?"

Ramza closed his eyes. "I didn't...I didn't want it to..." He opened his eyes and looked at it his sister. "I didn't want it to end like Teta."

Silence then. The wind whistled around them, stirring the blades of hardy grass clinging to life in the face of winter. Alma plucked at these blades absently, trailing her hand back and forth along their tips.

"I didn't know what else I was supposed to do," Alma said quietly. "After...after they took Teta..." Alma drew a shaky breath. "I was helpless. I couldn't save Dycedarg. I couldn't save Teta. I couldn't even...if Zal hadn't, it would've been me, and..."

Ramza remembered. He remembered the fear and the guilt, the day he and Delita had left the Beoulve Manor. He had still not been able to return.

"I always...talked about it," Alma murmured. "With her. After she...after all of you..." She trailed off again. She plucked a blade of grass and toyed with it idly. "I had to."

"I know," Ramza said. "I'm sorry."

She looked over at him. "What for?"

"For..." Ramza shook his head, trying to sort out his muddled feelings, to resolve them into words he could say aloud. He wanted to convey something of his uncertainty, his doubt, his grief. He wanted to explain how reluctant he was, to see Balbanes Beoulve as anything but the paragon whose shadow Ramza had always known he'd never escape.

But he had once felt the same way about his brothers. He could see their flaws now. Why couldn't he see his father's? Why not admit to his sister that he had been wrong?

"I don't know what I was supposed to do," Ramza said at last. "But whatever it was, I...I don't think I did it." He shrugged. "I'm sorry."

Alma shrugged in turn, smiling. "I'm here now."

"Yeah." Ramza studied his sister. "Thanks. For talking me into it."

"Thanks for listening."

Alma pushed a blade of grass into Ramza's hand. Ramza took it, looked at it for a long time. "You taught Ovelia," Ramza said.

Alma lit up. "You did it with her?"

"After I finished undoing the harm you'd wrought," Ramza said.

"Hey!" Alma smacked his bicep with her arm. "I'm a great teacher!"

"If you say so."

Ramza kept staring at the blade of grass. He thought of Ovelia, sitting with him by the old house. He thought of the first time he'd learned how to use a grass flute, beneath Balbanes' patient tutelage, with Dycedarg and Zalbaag laughing nearby. He thought of the day he'd left the Beoulve Manor.

And he thought of right now, sitting with his sister, hunted as a heretic, and dreadfully happy.

He brought the blade of grass to his lips. Beside him, his sister did the same.


	76. Chapter 75: Proud Believer

(Thanks for reading, everyone. If you're hungry for more content, please check out if quickascanbe dot com and follow me on Facebook and Twitter)

 **Chapter 75: Proud Believer**

... _first Queen Ovelia and now Alma Beoulve have demonstrated abilities they have no business knowing, and the false words of the heretic Ramza Beoulve have proven that we face a canny and sophisticated enemy who cannot be allowed access to the Stones. I was content to allow Father Simon his retirement at Orbonne (and all the ease that Virgo provides) but we can no longer allow him free reign. Do not harm Father Simon, but the Archives must be secured, and their treasures removed from his control._

 _-Marcel Funeral, "Excerpt from a Transcript of the Brave Council"_

"I don't like this," Agrias growled, glaring up at the leaden skies as they marched down the spacious white road to Orbonne. Rain had not yet begun to fall, but thunder grumbled to itself somewhere beyond the horizon.

Alicia nodded. "Storms at Orbonne haven't historically gone well for us."

"Poor Katherine," murmured Lavian.

"Poor Katherine," agreed Alma, squeezing Lavian's shoulder.

"My failure," Agrias said. "I should have..."

She trailed off, looking grimly into the distance as her fellow Lionessess spoke hesitant words of comfort. Ramza barely heard them. His eyes kept finding Radia, flickering away whenever she looked towards him. But sometimes when he looked at her, he saw her eyes darting away, too. He suspected they were sharing the same thoughts. The last time they had walked to Orbonne, they had done so in the service of Gaffgarion, with jokes on their lips.

"Katherine and Ysabel..." Alma's voice was small: when Ramza looked back at her, he found she was surprisingly pale, her eyes wide and glassy, her hands clenched in front of her. "I...I'd just met them."

Agrias put a hand on Alma's shoulder. "They were good soldiers," Agrias said. "And died in defense of their liege."

"Still died," Alicia grunted.

Agrias shot her a wary look. "You wouldn't do the same?"

Alicia glared at Agiras and held up the hand short a few fingers. "I really need to keep proving myself?"

Agrias' face softened. "No. I'm sorry."

Alicia nodded, though her face was still stony. Lavian reached out, and took that hand in her own.

They continued like that—all a little prickly, haunted by their ghosts and regrets. When they drew closer to the Monastery, they left the road behind, taking to the rolling green hills. They crept up the last line of hills circling the graceful majesty of white-domed Orbonne, poked their heads over to take a look.

And saw at once that something was wrong.

The grand wooden doors were cracked open. A long Caravan sat just outside those doors, guarded by two soldiers. They were ornately dressed in fine armor, with finer weapons in hand. Elaborate runes gleamed along its sides and roof: more elaborate than the merchant Caravans, if Ramza was any judge of such things.

"Templars," Lavian said grimly, ducking back behind the hill. "I can tell by the runes."

"She's right," Alicia added. "Defensive and offensive spells. Plus enhancements for speed. See the streamlined design?"

"Even cheap Caravans cost as much as a ship," Mustadio muttered. "This thing wouldn't look out of place in an Ydoran army."

"We have to assume they're here for the Stone," Radia said.

"But how did they learn about it?" Agrias murmured.

"They're looking for the Stones," Alma said. "We'll never be far ahead of them."

"Does that mean Simon's with them?" Ramza asked.

Alma pursed her lips and thought for a moment. "I don't know," she said at last. "He's...he's still got pull with Mullonde, but he's been retired a long time."

"How do we get past the guards?" Mustadio asked. "If I use my gun, it'll alert everyone.

"Leave it to us," Radia said, glancing at Ramza.

Ramza nodded. They moved together, circling around to the unprotected rear of the building, creeping down the hills in fits and stars, sheltering in the scant bushes and trees that lined this side of the Monastery, until they reached the white stone building itself.

"Thirty seconds," Radia whispered.

"Make it a minute," Ramza replied. "It's a big building and we've got to be quiet."

Radia pursed her lips, then nodded. They parted ways, circling around opposite sides of the building, Ramza forcing himself to keep his breathing steady and count off the seconds in his head. As he drew closer to the front of the building, he slowed his rapid steps, and pressed his back against the smooth white stone. He crouched low, risked a quick peek around the corner. Both soldiers were studying the line of hills.

"You see that?" asked a lanky young man with an ornate mustache, squinting towards the hills.

"See what?" grunted his companion, a stocky man with thinning grey hair whose hand was already on his sword hilt.

 _56, 57, 58..._ Ramza took a deep breath, drew a dagger from his belt, and dashed forwards. The lanky man turned to face him: Ramza clapped a hand over his mustached mouth and drove his dagger into the man's throat. The man's eyes went wide, and he grunted once as the bloody dribbled down across his armor.

"What-" started the grey-haired man behind him, whirling with sword in hand. Radia had just stepped out behind him: she wrapped her arm around his neck in a chokehold, and buried her blade into his back. He stiffened, struggled in her grasp; Radia twisted her sword, and with a body-engulfing shimmer, the man went limp. She let him drop to the ground with a _thud_.

Ramza and Radia drew their weapons back, stepping away from the corpses. Already, the others were hurrying down from the hill. Alma trailed behind them. Her pale face was fixed on the corpse in front of Ramza.

"You..." she started, her eyes flickering towards Ramza's face. She trailed off, shaking her head. "I didn't...I've never seen you..."

Ramza felt a pang of guilt a little stronger than usual. "Not the only ones I've killed, Alma," he said, as the faces fluttered across his mind's eye (as always, Argus' and Gaffgarion's stood out most of all).

"I know." Her voice was thin.

They hurried through the main doors of the Monastery, through the antechamber and into the sanctuary proper. Alma gasped: Simon was sunk low against the wide altar at the far end of the room, his bald head mottled with bruises, his white beard stained red where the blood that had trickled from his mouth had fallen.

"Oh God, Simon," Alma whispered, rushing towards the battered priest. The ring on her finger glowed, and shimmering light flowed from hands and fell like silk upon the priest's head.

"Alma?" Simon's fluttering eyes found her, had trouble focusing even as her magic worked. "How..." He nodded slowly. "Of course...the Stone..."

"How did you know-?" Radia began.

"I still...have friends...at Mullonde." His eyes flickered towards Ramza. "You...the Cardinal...?"

Ramza nodded. "Yes."

"It's not what you think-" Alma began plaintively.

"What...matter...what I..." Simon closed his eyes. His breathing slowed.

"Hold on," Lavian murmured, lifting her staff and adding her own translucent waves of cascading light to Alma's.

Almost at once, Simon's eyes opened, though they were still unfocused. "Templars...below," he said. "The...Braves..."

"Like Delita told us," Agrias growled. "Using the old legend for their own ends."

"Lucavi!" spat Alma. "They'd dare hurt a priest in the sanctuary.

"Not...much...of a sanctuary," Simon breathed, as blood trickled down one of the cuts in his head. "If...violence...can..." His eyelids fluttered again: with a rattling breath, they snapped open. "Do not...waste time...on me! They cannot...take...the Stone!"

The priest was right. The longer they waited with Simon, the better the chance that the Templars would find it. They had to move fast.

"Which floor?" Ramza asked.

"Lowest...level..." Simon muttered, losing focus again. "You will...know it...when you..."

His eyelids closed against. His breathing was steadier than before, but the beating had clearly taken its toll.

"Go," Alma said, cradling Simon's head in her lap. "I can tend to him, and you need Lavian."

Ramza stared at his sister. "I'm not leaving you alone up here.

"She won't be alone," Radia said.

"Uh, Radia?" Alicia said. "We could really use you-"

"One of us should stay up here anyways," Radia said. "Who says there aren't reinforcements on the way? We'll need the mages with you guys, and a Mage Knight's gonna be way more use than me if there's Swordbreakers with'em."

Oh, hell. Ramza hadn't even considered that. These were Templars: they were the only ones who practiced the magic arts that destroyed metal, stone, and wood with the right spell. Ramza had never faced once, but they were said to be nightmares on the field, able to shatter the armor and weapons of their enemies, even from afar.

"We'll be fine, Ramza," Alma said. "You heard Simon. You have to hurry."

Ramza nodded, but his eyes found Radia again. She was staring steadily back at him. "I'll keep them safe," Radia said.

"Thank you," Ramza said.

No more time for hesitation. He had brought his sister along on a dangerous quest against an enemy that kidnapped and hurt his friends and declared him a heretic for the crime of trying to expose their misdeeds. He had a chance to get ahead of them. He couldn't waste it.

Back along one of the stone hallways, just past the priest's little room where he had spent a scant few minutes on the night his life had changed again. A door stood open at the far end, with faded runes glowing half-heartedly along the ceiling as worn stone steps spiraled downwards out of sight. Ramza and his friends hurried down dozens of flights of stairs.

And in spite of his worries and fears, in spite of the need for haste, Ramza slowed in wonder as they reached the bottom of the stairs, and stepped out into the archives.

He should have put it together when Simon had told him to head for the lowest floor. There had been no landings above: they were headed deep beneath the earth. But the archives were more immense than Ramza had ever considered.

The ceiling was lost in darkness, but the shelves were illuminated around them, runes glowing at their joists. The shelves reached halfway up to that cavernous ceiling, lined with old books and scrolls piled in haphazard disorder. Piles of books and scrolls sat on the floor, too, and atop dusty glass cases. Passing by Ramza spied a rusting sword, a metal arm, old designs for airships, a necklace whose runes yet glowed.

"Saint Above," Lavian whispered, as they hurried through. "All these years..."

"You never came down here?" Mustadio asked. He was at the rear of the group, having lingered a bit too long over the metal arm.

"Forbidden," Agrias answered. She and Ramza remained near the front of the group, never pausing long. "These are Church secrets."

"Nothing too powerful, anyways," Alicia murmured. "They wouldn't leave anything that strong..."

"Except for a Stone," Mustadio said. "But why? Why leave it here why they hatch their schemes?"

Ramza wanted to join the conversation, but instead held up a forestalling hand. He heard voices up ahead, muffled by distance. Ramza followed the swelling voices, found another flight of stairs past the shelves, crept down it with the others following him. This one was shorter than the others: they stepped out into a room illuminated by merry runelight. The stairway was half-shielded by shelves lined with immaculate books: Ramza and the others pressed themselves against the shelves.

"Pull it out, Izlude!" exclaimed a frustrated man's voice. "We have to go!"

"Patience, Leuke," said a young man's voice, serious and thoughtful. "The magic here is a treasure in itself, and one I'd rather not unravel."

Ramza crouched low, poked his head around the corner of the bookshelf, and took in the scene. Just past the book shelves where Ramza and his friends stood was a wide, open gallery. The gallery was lined with several other glass cases, all open. There were a few treasures left upon their tables—the broken fragments of an old pistol, two simple rings of similar style but contrasting material (white gold and onyx), and a necklace of beads with different runes on each bead—but Ramza guessed that most of these treasures were now in the hands of the six men and women standing at the back wall of the gallery.

They were unmistakably Templars: each wore the mark of their order, the twelve Zodiac signs all circled around a dominant Virgo symbol. Some wore it on breastplates, some as little symbols over their hearts, and others had it emblazoned upon their red cloaks. All of them held remarkable treasures—a slender rapier that shimmered with a Mage Knight's threatening power, a bow with lines of light tracing their way to and fro across its arc, a trident with each prong a different metal, and more besides.

Behind them was a wall. No ordinary wall, this: etched upon it was a dizzying array of Ydoran runes. The sheer profusion of them daunted Ramza—it was the kind of fine detailwork usually reserved for a noble's treasured weapon —but there was even greater complexity here, spread across a mural of magical intent. The runes themselves were assembled in suggestive patterns, arcane angles and curves, and magic danced along their length to suggest still more constellations—an archer, a ram, a glowing sun, a crescent moon.

"What does it matter?" demanded a long-haired blonde man—the same one who had spoken before. "We have our orders!"

"It matters," answered the brown-haired young man who stood at the center of the group—the one who answered to Izlude. He wore a green cloak draped over golden armor, and his broad shoulders flexed as his fingers trailed across the runes on the wall. The Templar symbol was etched upon his armored shoulder. "This magic blows through the whole Monastery. If we have to take Virgo, we need not destroy the infrastructure. There's much we can learn here..."

His bare fingers came to rest on a section of stone duller than the others, with only a faint halo of runes glowing around it. Then his grip tightened. The halo of runes flashed brighter: the elaborate patterns across the wall swirled and whirled. At the center of this luminescent array gleamed a lurid red stone, a more vivid scarlet even than Scorpio.

"Look at that!" Izlude exclaimed. His fingers tapped a few of the runes around the Stone, then plucked it from its resting place. At once, the runes along the wall began to dim. Izlude had eyes only for the Stone.

"Let's get out out of here!" hissed a tall, tan woman to his right, with the marvelous bow in her grasp.

"Our orders were clear," Izlude said, slipping the Stone into a pouch at his waist and taking a runed gauntlet from one of his fellow Templars. "We have to secure Stone and Gospel alike. Simon said it was on this floor." He pulled the gauntlet into place: he wore a similar gauntlet upon his other arm, with runes glowing at regular intervals along the fingerplates.

"We're in a fucking library!" spat the squat older man holding the trident. "We're supposed to look at every fuckin' tome?"

"It should be written in old Ydoran," Izlude said. "That'll help narrow the search."

"We're in fucking archives, Izlude!"

The Templars started marching back towards the shelves. Ramza glanced over his shoulder. The others nodded, pressing back against the shelves. Ramza stepped out into the open, an arrow nocked to his bow. The Templars froze.

"Drop the Stone," Ramza said.

"Who..." Izlude trailed off and nodded. "Ah. The heretic Beoulve." Ramza was surprised to find no malice in the young man's voice: if anything, he seemed intrigued.

"The one who rants about Lucavi?" asked the tall blonde woman to his left, her gloved hands glowing with runes.

"The very same," Izlude replied.

The blonde woman made as if to raise her bow: Izlude held up a forestalling hand. "They have the stairs, Carmine. And Lady Lavian is no slouch with her wards." He smiled sardonically. "She's behind the shelves, I take it?"

Ramza did not answer. He remained where he was, arrow trained on Izlude. "I won't ask again."

"And you'll kill me if I don't?" Izlude shook his head. "Even if I believed your threat, I am a Templar. I am not afraid to die to bring about our paradise. None of us are."

"A paradise?" Ramza scoffed. "For Lucavi, perhaps."

"Yes, Zalmour told me of your scheme." Izlude sighed again. "Corrupting the legend of the Stones so that when our Braves take centerstage you can accuse us of...this." Izlude shook his head again. "It's a clever plan, Ramza, but we don't need to be enemies. We could be allies."

"Your Cardinal made us such an offer," Ramza said. "Right before he turned into a monster."

"He was a monster," Izlude agreed, surprising Ramza. "That such a noble man could sink to such depravity..." He shook his head. "So please, no lies. You had your reasons to kill the Cardinal. We are better off without him in our ranks. And better off still with you and yours."

Ramza studied the young man in front of him. He was serious, almost friendly. But Ramza well-remembered the fine performance the Cardinal had put on for them, when he'd pretended to be their ally. It oculd be just the same.

"You call the Cardinal monstrous," Ramza said. "But his plan was your plan. You started this war."

"You are not so dumb as that, Ramza Beoulve!" Izlude exclaimed. "It was not we Templars who compelled the powerful to wage bloody, brutal war against Ordallia! It was not we Templars who repaid our debts with the gil, sweat, and blood of Ivalice's populace, and crushed any bold enough to object to our thievery! And it was not we Templars that sent assassins to kill a Princess, just because she posed a threat to our plans! We saved her, Ramza!"

"So you could use her?" Ramza shouted.

"Use her to lure out the parasites!" Izlude retorted. "Give them the excuse they so desperately crave! Men like Goltanna! Men like Larg!" His eyes narrowed. "Men like your brothers."

A jolt of cold in Ramza's heart, and pulsing down his veins. "What?"

"Your brothers," Izlude repeated. "The loyal dog who tears to shreds all his master's foes, and calls it honor. Or Larg's pet viper, whose poison corrupts and corrodes our kingdom. And look at the youngest brother! A heretic, hunted and hated, and still better than the rest. Join us, Ramza."

Ramza stared at him. His arrow drooped a little. "What?" he said again.

"Think of it!" Izlude exclaimed. "A heretic Beoulve, whose brothers serve a wicked usurper! Bereft of God's light, he sinks into heresy, but serves God even then, killing a holy man who has gone astray! And when he is redeemed by the magic of the Stones and the grace of Saint Ajora, he joins his childhood friend and the new Braves, and in service to the rightful queen whose life he once saved, helps build a better Ivalice. An Ivalice where every soul has a voice in the future of our nation!"

"Every voice you haven't killed," Ramza said, though he found there was little anger in his voice or in his thoughts. There was nothing of the Cardinal's smug glibness here. Izlude was speaking with dreadful earnestness.

"Have you learned nothing from our Saint?" Izlude asked. "Fixing this world requires sacrifice."

"That should be their choice," Ramza said.

"Like it was the Death Corps' choice?" Izlude asked. "Ramza, the powers of Ivalice will never allow the people their freedom. That is why we fight. We shall bring the Braves against these modern Lucavi, cut the rot from Ivalice, and save our nation!"

"Why do you get to decide who lives or dies!" Ramza shouted.

"For the same reason you stand before us, Ramza Beoulve," Izlude answered. "We do not shy from the difficult path, and I am as proud of my father's name as you are."

Ramza stared at him. "Who are you?"

"Izlude Tengille," the other man replied.

Tengille. As in Vormav Tengille. As in the famous Knight-Commander of the Templars, a warrior of great renown across Ivalice.

"Think on it, Ramza," Izlude said, and his voice rose feverishly. "The last Lionessess, fighting in service to their kingdom. Gaffgarion's daughter, atoning for his sins. A machinist bringing to life the wonders of the past for the needy of the present. And a heretic Beoulve, redeemed by the Stones as he takes his rightful place among them. It's the stuff of legend!"

Too much earnestness in Izlude's voice. Nothing insincere or pretentious. And it occurred to Ramza that he didn't know of the Lucavi, just like Zalmour. So what was Ramza supposed to do?

"Izlude-" he began, and then stopped. He'd heard something, something he almost hadn't registered as a sound. Then he heard it again. A scream, made dim by distance and thick stone. A scream he recognized. And when it came again, he heard words in that scream.

"-za! Ramza help!"

"Alma!" Ramza cried, whirling back towards his sister's voice as all his other thoughts fell away.


End file.
